The Greatest Elusion
by HarleQueen21
Summary: Following the events of the last season, Sherlock and Joan work at repairing their partnership and, in so doing, discover a side to it which neither of them had anticipated. Whilst trying to come to terms with the true nature of their relationship, they find themselves embroiled in a case involving a ruthless killer, whose sights become fixed on Joan Watson. (Dedicated to RP&AW)
1. Chapter 1

For the past four weeks since the events with Mycroft, Sherlock and Joan had been slowly rebuilding their fractured relationship. They had had many late-night discussions, where Joan found herself immersed in the company of a man who was slowly opening up to her more. Their was much they still needed to discuss, to understand, and to consider. But for the moment, they were quite content that their former relationship had been re-established. However, Joan still expressed a desire to move out. She had viewed a couple of apartments over the last few weeks, and had each of them more lonely and isolated than the last. She would battle with her feelings of confusion and dejection as she re-entered the brownstone, basking in the warmth and familiarity of the place, and of its inhabitant. She kept telling herself that it was natural to be nervous, to have reservations about moving out, but that it would happen. Eventually. But for now, she was content in the fact that she and Sherlock were fixing their friendship, re-establishing and re-writing the obstacles which they each faced. Joan told herself that, when their relationship was less fragile than it had been before, they would both be in a better position for her to move out. She almost believed her rationalisations, too.

Joan's apartment-hunting had also been temporarily stagnated due to the most recent case which she and Sherlock were working on. For the past week they had been working on uncovering the identity of an individual threatening the life of an eminent politician. Over the two weeks, two attempts had been made on the man's life, and further ones were feared. Therefore, Aaron McDean, the politician in question, had enlisted the help of the consulting detectives, whose reputation was well-known and respected. Although Sherlock had been reluctant to take the case, Joan and the NYPD had managed to ensure his help. On one particular evening, Sherlock and Joan were preparing for their latest task in relation to this event: they were to go undercover at a high-society fund-raiser, which the politician was attending. The event was in aid of one of McDean's charitable organisations, and was something which he was determined not to miss, regardless of the threat to his life. The help and protection of the NYPD had been enlisted, as had the assistance of Sherlock and Joan. Gregson had stated that, although they would not be expected to act as bodyguards for McDean, they may be able to identify potential threats to his safety which other officers might miss or overlook. Sherlock and Joan agreed to this, assuring the Captain that they would attend the event and keep an eye on the politician.

On the evening of the event, a well-dressed Sherlock Holmes was standing outside the closed door of Joan's room, and was conversing with her whilst she got ready, much to her consternation.

"I despite politicians" he stated, as he paced slowly outside her bedroom door, turning to face it when he spoke. "My disdain for them is only rivalled by my dislike of bankers." He continued in a low tone, shifting on the spot as he tapped his fingers impatiently on his thigh. "Watson? Are you quite ready?" He called through the door.

Inside the room, Joan sighed. She was sitting on her bed and securing the straps on her elegant black heels, before rising from the bed and walking over to the mirror. She was wearing a fitted black dress which came in at the waist, and floated out gracefully at her hips, accentuating her hour-glass figure. The dress had thin pieces of black, transparent fabric which rested delicately over her shoulders, hiding the straps which held the dress up. She wore an intricately-designed silver belt across her waist, which complemented her figure, and set off the outfit beautifully. Her hair was tied up in an equally intricate and elegant fashion, with her fringe framing her face. She was applying some lipstick and adjusting her earrings when she heard Sherlock's latest complaint through the door.

"If that's how you feel, why did you take the case?" she asked amiably, tilting her head to check her earrings, as she draped a matching silver and diamond necklace across her neck. "If you are so averse to politicians, and all they stand for, why allow yourself to be involved in his protection?"

"I am incredibly averse to politicians, Watson" he replied instantly, and she could hear him resume his pacing. "They acquire high levels of wealth and eminence for deception. They are nothing more than government-endorsed felons." Joan scoffed in amusement, shaking her head slowly as she rolled her eyes. "I know what you just did, Watson" Sherlock stated simply, causing Joan to look up towards her closed door. "That eye-roll was practically audible."

"You still haven't answered my question" she returned, as she reached towards her jewellery box for her diamond bracelet, and began to secure it to her wrist. "Why would you agree to take on the case if you feel so strongly about the person we are working for?" Joan secured the bracelet and moved towards her wardrobe, opening both doors and scanning the contents briefly. She reached towards the back and drew some of the hangers to the side, searching for her silver wrap. As she passed another hanger aside, her hand connected with a temporarily-forgotten garment of clothing, and she froze. It was the jacket she was wearing when she had been kidnapped two months ago. Joan's breath caught in her throat and she swallowed hard. She felt flushed all of a sudden, uncomfortably warm and slightly light-headed. She raised a slightly shaking arm to the hanger next to it and extracted her light grey wrap, securing it around herself as she closed the doors to the wardrobe and made her way slowly towards her bed.

"That was never an option, Watson" he called through the door, in a slightly lower tone than he had been using before. Joan placed some of her items into a small silver clutch bag, securing it shut, as she turned to face the door.

"Oh" she began, lifting the clutch and walking back towards the mirror. "And why was that?"

"Because of you" he said simply. Joan turned suddenly on the spot, flashing a confused stare towards the still-closed door. She was fairly certain that Sherlock had 'seen' that too. "You are a protector, Watson. It is what you do. You went from saving lives on the operating table to saving them in the field. You are drawn to work because of the puzzle and the intrigue, but mainly because of the people" he continued, speaking quickly yet and in a respectful tone. "I knew that you would not wish for a man's life to be at risk simply because I disapprove of his profession". Joan nodded to herself, smiling slightly as she slowly made her way towards the door. His words touched her heart. "Regardless of the fact that the man is an absolute-"

"Philanthropist?" Joan offered, opening the door wide and standing beneath the door-frame. Sherlock had not been facing the door, but was standing a few feet in front of it, his body at an angle, staring at the rooms to the right of Joan's own. At the sound of her voice, he turned mechanically, and stared at her for a few moments with incredible intensity. She was beautiful. He swallowed slowly, and his eyes widened as he cast an approving and admiring glance across her body. She noticed this, of course. She also noticed how his eyes widened and rose to meet her own as she took a step towards him. He felt his palms become warm and his heart beat slightly faster, and he blinked a couple of times to draw himself out of whatever trance he was under. As he opened his mouth to complement her, Joan spoke first. "Your tie is crooked" she stated simply, moving towards him and reaching up towards his neck. She acted quickly and deftly, fixing his tie within moments. He continued to look at her face as she worked, breathing in deeply as he realised their current closeness. He felt his body quiver slightly as her finger gently brushed his neck.

"Watson, you..." he began, in a tone which sounded more confident than he believed himself to be capable of at that particular moment. "You look wonderful."

Joan smiled warmly at him, bowing her head for a moment, before lifting her eyes to meet his own. "Thank you, Sherlock. You look rather wonderful yourself." Sherlock sighed slowly, before turning towards the stairs, and hooking his right arm towards her.

"Shall we?" he said in a mocking tone. Before he could move his arm back, Joan linked it with her own, and began to lead him down the steps.

"We shall." She said simply, staring in an amused manner at the slightly confused and bewildered expression on his face. They walked down the stairs, arm in arm. Despite the fact that Sherlock's gesture had been one which was intended on mocking the conventions and attitudes of the audience they would be meeting that night, Joan had held him to it. Sherlock's immediate reaction had been to sigh in mock-annoyance and defeat. But as they began to descend the steps, each of them realised that the gesture itself, whilst it had been intended to be mocking and artificial, was not. At least, not entirely. By the time they reached the bottom of the steps, and Sherlock had disengaged their arms to allow himself to be able to open the front door for Watson, they both realised how much comfort and satisfaction they had just experienced. It was almost as though their arms were meant to be entwined.

The journey to the location of the fund-raiser was brief and uneventful, with Sherlock scrolling through his phone and showing Joan pictures of the man they were protecting, as well as of the individual who had been seen following him on a couple of occasions.

"This is Bart DeSouza, Watson" Sherlock recapped, showing her a couple of graining images of the would-be attacker. "He was fired by McDean four months ago, and has recently lost his case in a tribunal for unfair dismissal. It would appear as though he is seeking revenge. And, based on past actions and attempts, he has no qualms about enacting said revenge in a public place." The taxi driver looked at Sherlock and Joan in the mirror, his eyes narrowing in confusion. He quickly decided better of it, and simply faced forward and continued to drive. He had no interest in getting mixed up in any of this.

"And Gregson thinks this guy could show up tonight?" Joan asked in a lower, more covert tone. "What would make him think that-"

"Because, Watson, the place is so _very _public" Sherlock stated simply, scrolling back to the main menu on his phone before placing it in his pocket. "And it is an event where McDean will be the centre of attention due to his _philanthropy_" Sherlock stated, pronouncing the final word with disdain.

"You don't approve of charity?"

"I don't approve of individuals creating charities solely for their own benefit and personal gain." He returned immediately, staring out of the window for a moment. "it is the height of hypocrisy, and represents yet notch in the chain of their many deceptions."

Before Joan could respond, the taxi pulled up outside the location of the event, which was clearly in full swing. Joan glanced out the window and admired the busy scene. There were well-dressed people walking confidently towards the entrance, handing their keys to waiting valets. As it was the late evening on a winter's night, the building surrounded by a veil of darkness, with the artificial light from large Chinese lanterns illuminating the scene. The lanterns had been arranged in two straight lines, one either side of a long carpet leading to the entrance. As Joan smiled appreciatively at the scene, her view was suddenly blocked by a familiar black tie and waistcoat. She turned immediately to the side, noted Sherlock's absence, and turned once more to the face the window. In this time, Sherlock had opened the door of the taxi and was offering her his hand, which she accepted, as he helped her out of the taxi, passing some cash to the driver as he did so.

Joan stood by his side for a moment, as they both stared admiringly at the sight before them. Joan suddenly felt very conscious of herself: her dress, her make-up, her demeanour. Although she had worn an outfit which she felt comfortable in, and which she believed was appropriate for the occasion, she could not help but feel very out of place.

"You have nothing to fear, Watson" Sherlock said simply, causing Joan to turn her head towards him as he spoke. "You outshine everyone in this building. Of that I assure you." Sherlock sounded calm and confident, and his gaze did not leave the building in front of him as he spoke to Joan. She smiled appreciatively, grateful for not only his kind words, but for the fact that he seemed to pick up on her discomfort. "Are you ready?" he asked kindly, turning to face her. She nodded in response, and was about to begin to walk forward, when the familiar sight of his extended arm greeted her. She looked up at him mechanically, a small grin playing on her lips.

Sherlock sighed in feigned annoyance as Joan did not even attempt to hide her amusement, accepting his arm instantly. "I thought you didn't approve of this" she asked in a low yet respectful tone. "Adhering to the conventions of the political and social elite."

"I do not, my dear Watson" he replied, as he adjusted his arm slightly and took a few steps forward. "But, on this particular occasion, such sacrifices are necessary." She smiled warmly at him, and they each relaxed markedly, as they made their way confidently towards the building.

The large ballroom was filled with the sound of classical music and engaging conversations. The room was large, boasting a grand and open floor-space and a high ceiling. Several crystal chandeliers were hanging from the ceiling, and rare and expensive artwork was looming imposingly upon the walls. In the centre of the room was a large area where a few people were dancing, right in front of an impressively decorated platform at the back wall, which held a large table and several microphones, which were currently being checked over by well-dressed members of staff. All around the room were tables decorating in expensive white cloths, recently-upholstered chairs, and glassware which probably cost more than the salaries of all the protective officers combined. Sherlock observed this with mild annoyance, and could feel his irritability rising with the artificial and grandiose nature of the event. He guessed that the majority of the guests here this evening did not even know what the charity itself was in aid of, musing that they probably only came to get their faces in the society sections of the tabloids, and be hailed as philanthropic heroes and heroines.

As they stepped inside this large room, they were immediately approached by one of the protection officers, who was posing as a waiter. He appeared to be well-dressed and impassive, and approached Sherlock and Joan with a large silver tray which held a selection of expensive appetisers.

"Mr Holmes, Miss Watson" he greeted in a low tone, bowing his head slightly and extending the tray. "McDean is at the corner table at the far left, towards the podium" he stated simply, as he tilted the tray around, pretending to show the most recent guests the array of potential foods. "He is sitting alone, his wife is at a table with some female friends. We've had no sign of DeSouza as of yet."

"Excellent, Bradley" Sherlock stated, removing his arm from Joan's and reaching out towards the tray, childishly grabbing a handful of salmon appetisers before walking brazenly forward. Officer Bradley sighed and rolled his eyes, before nodding politely at Joan's brief apology. She thanked him sincerely, before walking quickly towards Sherlock, who was standing a few feet ahead of her.

"Can you not behave like an adult for five-"

"Appetiser?" he asked, speaking with a mouthful of salmon and crackers, as he offered her one of the tasty treats which were laying crumbled in his hand.

She sighed, briefly surveying the room as she spoke. "Thanks, I'll pass." With that, Sherlock dropped the food pointedly on the floor, causing Joan to look up at him, wide-eyed and remonstrative, which she realised only amused him more. "Why don't you go and get us some drinks?" she asked tiredly, indicating towards the bar with her clutch bag. "I'll be sitting right here." Sherlock nodded politely, removing a few crumbs from the corner of his mouth, before strutting towards the bar. Joan watched him for a few moments, before sitting down at an empty table, and allowing her scarf to fall from her shoulders, revealing her back. At this moment, Sherlock cast a glance back in her direction, and found himself staring at her profile, admiring her beauty once more. He was so enraptured by her presence, her beauty and her wonder, that the well-spoken man behind the bar had to ask him for his order three times, before Sherlock turned towards him to speak.

Joan sat at the table for a few moments, running her fingers along her bag, and opening it briefly to glance at her phone. There was something very strange about this night, very surreal. He word which Sherlock had used repeatedly, 'artificial', had struck her. She understood what he meant, and did not entirely disagree with him, but his use of the term made her realise something else, too. Something which confused her deeply. It was how she felt, earlier in the evening, when she accepted Sherlock's arm, and he had escorted her down the stairs. She knew that he had initially meant the gesture to be one of mocking insincerity, but it had certainly not felt as such. Instead, it felt comfortable, reassuring, and wonderful. Certainly not artificial. Not in the least. As she allowed herself to ponder this perplexing issue, she was drawn from her thoughts by the sound of movement behind her, as Sherlock placed a champagne flute in front of her.

"What are... is that alcohol?" she asked incredulously, watching as he sipped from a similar glass. "Sherlock, what are you-"

"Relax, Watson" he mumbled, drawing the glass away from his lips. "It is mineral water. I ordered it for both of us, but requested it to be served in these glasses, it is less conspicuous." Joan nodded in understanding, before taking a cautious sip from her own glass. "I assure you, it is ethanol free." Joan laughed lightly, before turning towards him and seeing a warm and playful expression dancing

in his eyes. Sherlock returned her smile, and took up the seat next to her. They remained at their table, engrossed in their own conversation and observances, as they continued to watch the man who they were protecting. The evening itself was fairly uneventful in terms of their task, with just a couple of waiters and the man's slightly-tipsy wife approaching him. But an hour or so later, something changed.

The politician was approached by a well-dressed man in a tailored suit, who he did not appear to recognise at once. But a few moments later, his eyes widened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His visitor raised a hand, before walking around the table and sitting by his side. Sherlock and Joan's view of their charge was obscured by the new man's back, and they addressed the issue immediately.

"is that DeSouza?" asked Watson, tilting her head towards Sherlock as she spoke, her hair brushing against his cheek.

"It is hard to judge from here" he returned in a low voice, his gaze not leaving the scene ahead of him. "But the man's height, weight and hair colour are consistent with DeSouza." Before Joan had a chance to speak, Sherlock rose from his seat, and began to adjust his waistcoat. She watched him with confusion for a moment, and he continued to look towards the other table as he spoke. "We need to move closer to them." He stated firmly, removing his hands from his waistcoat, and extending one to the still-seated Watson. His eyes were wide and warm, and his expression was one of kindness and adoration, which Joan assumed he had adopted for whatever he was planning on doing next. "May I have this dance?"

Joan understood. The best way to ensure McDean's safety was to survey him covertly, but they needed to be closer to him. She turned away from the table and looked up towards Sherlock, whose eyes were glistening with anticipation. She smiled up at him, placing her own hand in his, and entwining their fingers. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before returning her grasp, and gently leading her towards the dance floor.

The music playing was soft and gentle, and had attracted many other patrons to the expertly-polished dance floor. As they reached the centre of this space, Joan turned on the spot to face Sherlock, and they simply stared at one another for a moment. "Do you know the Waltz, Watson?" he asked quietly, as he raised their linked hands towards his chest, and drew her towards him with his right. The movement took her breath away, and she could feel his warmth emanating from his body. It occurred to her that she had never been so close to him before. His right hand was resting on her lower back, which he used to draw her closer to him, before adjusting their clasped hands slightly. Joan looked up to Sherlock with a mixture of curiosity and concern, which a small smile from his instantly abated, as they both glided elegantly across the room. Despite the fact that they were surrounded by over two hundred people, one of whom they were there to protect from physical danger, for a short period of time Sherlock and Joan felt as though they were the only two people in the room. They danced like this for a few moments, with Sherlock twirling Joan around in his arms occasionally, before drawing him back tightly to his chest. She could feel the comforting beat of his heart, which was becoming much more rapid and strong, as it beat against her own chest.

"I don't know this dance" she whispered breathlessly, as she turned to face the table at which the increasingly-agitated politician was sitting.

"You're doing beautiful, Watson, I assure you" he stated gently, his breath warm on her ear. She tilted her head slightly towards him, closing her eyes as she subconsciously pressed her own cheek onto his, which caused him to draw her closer to him. She could hear his breathing increase slightly, and opened her eyes briefly to glance up at him, only to notice how wide his eyes were, and how dilated his pupils had become. Joan turned slowly to the side, closing her eyes once more as he carried her across the room. She felt as though she were weightless, as though she had no physical form. Sherlock was leading her confidently across the ballroom, her feet occasionally touching the ground, and yet she felt as though she was in the middle of a dream. Everything seemed so surreal, so unfamiliar. And yet so very, very right. She was only drawn from her pleasurable musings by the sound of Sherlock's voice, who whispered to her urgently.

"We are approaching his table, Watson" he began, causing her to open her eyes and turn towards him, as he dipped her slightly and then lifted her up to face him. His hands were resting on her waist, and he slowly moved his right arm across her once more, before clasping his left hand tightly with her right. "I will turn you towards him, alright? Now, we haven't much time, so please, pay particular attention to anything that seems-" he paused for a moment, his wide eyes softening slightly as he drew her closer to him, and their hearts continued to beat in unison, "out of the ordinary". Joan nodded in understanding, believing the power of speech to have completely eluded her at this particular moment in time. She allowed Sherlock to turn her slowly and elegantly towards the table, and she extended her arm and smiled to greet the two faces who stared curiously back at her, one in fear, one in mild annoyance. She surveyed the table briefly, before finding herself being pulled back to Sherlock's side once more, as he pressed his face gently against her own. She was vaguely aware of the sounds of polite clapping and comments coming from nearby tables, by individuals who had been watching Sherlock and Joan's beautiful dance, and admiring the passion and the sincerity of each move. But both dancers were oblivious to this, and were once more completely engaged with the matter at hand.

"Anything, Watson?" he asked in a voice which she did not recognise, but which was slightly breathless.

"Yeah, he..." she paused, breathing in deeply as she turned to whisper directly into his ear. He could feel her gentle inhalations, and leaned closer to her, relaxing completely into her comfort. "McDean looks panicked, and the guy with him looks like DeSouza" she began, her voice adopting a much more confident and familiar air. "And there's something else" she began hesitantly, tilting her head slightly to glance back towards their table, before speaking again. "I think DeSouza is pressing something against McDean's leg under the table." Joan felt Sherlock nod into her shoulder, before he slowly drew his hand lower down her back, unclasped their linked hands, and placed one hand on the base of her neck, dipping her gently to the ground, before drawing her up once more to a louder and much more noticeable sound of applause. They both stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide and senses heightened, as they began to feel their bodies quiver with anticipation. The urgency of the situation demanded immediate action, which drew them both from their thoughts.

"We need to see what is happening" Sherlock began confidently, as he clasped their hands together once more, placing his right hand on her lower back in the now-familiar position. "If I lower you, do you... would you feel able to look under the table and see what is going on?" He asked gently, drawing her face close to hers once more, causing them both to feel light-headed and slightly flushed. "The table-cloth only covers a couple of inches, you should be able to examine what is occurring underneath" Sherlock paused for a moment, considering his previous words. Joan nodded against his cheek immediately, before whispering "yes" in a breathless manner. Sherlock nodded in response, before drawing her as close to him as he was able to, causing both of their hearts to race and their breathing to increase. "Hold on" he spoke gently, pulling her towards him once more. He slowly lowered his hand down her back and towards her side. She could feel his fingers slowly travelling down the material covering her leg, before he placed an open-palmed hand upon her thigh. "May I, Watson?" he asked breathlessly, as she pressed herself against him.

"Mm-hm" she murmured breathlessly, raising her leg slightly, as he ran his hand gently down her thigh and towards her calf, drawing her leg to his hips. Joan reacted immediately, pushing herself off the ground with her left leg, and wrapping her right calf across Sherlock's upper thigh, as he ran his free hand up her back to the base of her neck, pulling her leg closer to him, and dipping her gently towards the ground. The hall was filled with sounds of approval and clear impression, as well as some clapping, as Joan was spun elegantly and professionally around the floor a couple of times, before being drawn once more into her partner's arms. She exhaled shakily, running her right arm up his back and gripping his shoulder to support herself. Sherlock reacted immediately, using both hands to draw her close to him, and dancing with her gently for a few moments until she was able to speak. He was grateful for this brief pause because, at that precise moment in time, he did not believe himself capable of speech. "Knife" she whispered breathlessly. "He's got a knife."

Sherlock nodded immediately, and both he and Joan found themselves instantly sobered at this startling revelation. Joan felt one of his hands leave her back, and leaned closer to him slightly, for fear that she would fall. She certainly did not feel steady on her feet.

"What are you doing?" she asked, in a quiet voice which was almost her own.

"I have given the signal to Captain Gregson" Sherlock responded, placing his hand on her lower back and drawing her closer to him. "He is upstairs on one of the balconies. He can-"

"There's no time" Joan spoke confidently, pushing her head slowly towards his own, and whispering softly in his ear. "Spin me again." Sherlock's eyes widened and his pupils became fully dilated. His heart beat faster as his mouth dried, and his palms became slightly clammy. He swallowed briefly, before tilting his own head slightly to meet Joan's own.

"Watson, are you quite-"

"Hurry" she whispered urgently, as the dancers reached the table in question. Slowly, and with great care, Sherlock repeated the movement of a few moments ago. Due to the immediacy of the threat, Sherlock and Joan were able to find themselves being much more able and controlled. Joan leaned in towards the table as Sherlock dipped her, extending her arms outwards, and reaching for the shining item in the hands of the unsuspecting man at the seat. She grabbed at the knife, her fingers wrapping themselves around the blade, as she pulled it from the startled man's grasp. Sherlock drew her towards him immediately, with such intensity and force that she felt as though all the breath had disappeared from her body. As he did so, a swarm of police officers emerged from a door behind the table, and rushed at the fleeing man, apprehending him immediately, before the politician was led from the room by Captain Gregson, who nodded appreciatively towards Sherlock and Joan. Sherlock nodded in response, but Joan did not. Her whole body was pressed against Sherlock's own, and he held her there for several moments, each of them remaining quite still. Sherlock had one arm wrapped protectively across her back, and the other holding her head steadily in place, where it was resting by his shoulder. Sherlock's lips were resting near her face, occasionally brushing her forehead, and causing Joan to sigh contently. Their hearts were beating in unison once more, with such passion and intensity that Joan questioned whether it were possibly for her chest to burst.

At this thought, Joan found herself feeling instantly sobered by the pain which was emanating from her right hand. She pushed herself gently away from Sherlock, who released her regretfully, placing both of his hands on her back to support her. Joan dropped the knife from her grasp, allowing it to fall to the ground, where it was instantly picked up by a passing officer. Sherlock found his attention drawn to the sound, and then to the hand which dropped it. His eyes widened and his pupils constricted, the sight before him sobering him instantly.

"Watson" he stated urgently, reaching into his dinner jacket and extracting an expensive silk handkerchief, which he deftly wrapped across her bleeding hand. He acted quickly, but with such skill and gentleness that took Joan's breath away, and she found herself experiencing that strange floating sensation once more. She looked at her hand, which was now wrapped in the makeshift-bandage. It was quite unnecessary, she judged. The injury was quite minor, and the bleeding had already stopped.

"I'm fine" she stated breathlessly, glancing from her hand to his face. Sherlock watched her with wide-eyes, concern and adoration etched into his features. He placed both of his hands over her own, minding the spot where she had the small laceration, before slowly releasing her hand.

"Watson, I-" he began, his eyes not leaving her own. Neither of them were sure of what had just happened. It was inexplicable, an enigma. But what could not be denied was that something had happened, they had both realised it, felt it, _lived_ it. And they stared at each other now, in complete and utter bewilderment, the remnants of their recent experience dancing in their eyes. "I... I believe that we have accomplished our task." His voice still sounded shaky and rather breathless, as did her own. But Joan was instantly sobered by his statement, and she looked up at him with concern and confusion. Before she could speak, Sherlock nodded politely towards her, before turning from her and walking towards the exit, where a number of frightened guests had also fled to. Joan remained on the spot for a moment, staring after Sherlock in a confused and troubled manner. She pursed her lips together, nodding as she tried to control her breathing, before making her way slowly towards her table and gathering her things. As she wrapped her scarf around herself, she considered the events of the last few minutes, which seemed to her almost like a dream. She breathed in shakily and cleared her throat, before picking up her clutch bag and walking towards the exit, where Sherlock was standing patiently. Joan walked slowly towards him, forcing herself to appear confident and unaffected, as she came within close proximity of him. She felt her whole body quiver in his presence, with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He seemed to sense her presence without looking at her, and continued to walk forward slowly with her, his arms pressed against his side. As Joan and Sherlock reached the doorway, she turned back briefly, casting a melancholy glance towards the dance floor, before following him down the stone steps.


	2. Chapter 2

The taxi ride back to the brownstone was one filled with nothing but silence, which was punctuated only by the sound of nearby cars driving through the lightly drizzling rain. Joan was sitting up straight, her hands clasped in her lap, as she gazed out of the window for the entirety of the journey. The bright amber lamps which lined the street shone their light into the car as she found herself completely lost in her own muddled thoughts. The night had certainly been one of mystery and confusion, and she felt completely at a loss as to how to process the events or deal with her present situation: namely, Sherlock's coldness. He had not spoken a word to her since leaving the event, with the only contact they had being a polite nod to her when she thanked him for holding the taxi door open for her. She knew that the evening had led to them both finding themselves, even just for a few moments, completely without restriction. They had eroded all the boundaries between them, the boundaries which always exist between friends or associates, and for just a few moments, they had become something more. As Joan pondered this, she isolated the inaccuracy of her thought. It had been more than a few moments. In fact, the more she thought about it, she realised that the romantic element of their relationship had been present for the entire evening. She just hadn't quite realised it.

As this thought crossed her mind, she cast a cautious glance towards Sherlock, who was sitting in a manner similar to her, but was facing forwards, his bright eyes wide and unblinking. Joan turned instantly back from him, facing out of the window once more, as she tried to think of what to do next. She was hurt by Sherlock's coldness, his aloof attitude and dismissive treatment of her. But she understood it. It was how he acted, how he dealt with events which he felt unable to process. It took her a very short while to realise that his cool and surly attitude was not directed at her, but at himself. He was as equally confused as she was, and probably frustrated with himself for allowing himself to become so completely engaged in a side to their relationship which was unquestionably romantic, if only for a there was something else to their relationship that night, something which Joan had been thinking about constantly. The connection. It was not just romantic in manner, or attitude, or emotions, but in physicality too. When they had been dancing, she felt an uncontrollable draw towards him, and found herself utterly incapable of controlling herself. She ran through the dance in her mind as she considered her thoughts, remembering every move, every touch, and every emotion. She found herself feeling breathless and slightly warm as she reminisced, as she realised just how far they had allowed themselves to depart from the conventions of their typical relationship. Before she could ponder this any further, the taxi came to an abrupt stop outside the brownstone, and she found herself feeling nervous and incredibly apprehensive.

Joan slowly undid her seatbelt and, as the sound of the un-clicking entered the otherwise silent taxi, a sound from her left drew her attention instantly to the door to her side. Sherlock had, without her knowledge, got out of the taxi and was holding the door open for her. She was struck by the coolness of the air, which refreshed her slightly, soothing her flustered cheeks. However, unlike the last time he held the door open for her, Sherlock was not standing in front of her with a kind expression and an outstretched hand. Instead, he was standing to the side, holding the door open with one hand, as his entire body was turned from her and facing the brownstone. Joan sighed quietly, before easing herself from the vehicle and walking on to the pavement, as Sherlock quickly closed the taxi door and ascended the stone steps. By the time Joan reached the top, Sherlock was already inside, hanging up his coat and scarf before making his way towards the kitchen. Joan waited in the foyer for a few moments, considering what to do next. She knew that he was finding the events of the evening difficult to process, and that he was battling the same confusion as she was. She believed that he was probably chastising himself severely for allowing himself to reveal that side of himself to her, and to engage her in a dance which had become much more heated and physically charged than either of them could have anticipated. She knew that, in moments like this, he needed solitude and quiet in order to process his thoughts and deal with the confusion. His coldness to her before they left the building had been a self-preservation method, acting as a way to protect both himself and her. At this moment, Joan believed that this method was primarily to protect himself from the fact that he had allowed himself to engage in an activity which he did not feel comfortably with, or that he regretted. She could not be more wrong.

Joan slowly made her way across the hall and towards the kitchen, shrugging the wrap from her shoulders, until it fell down her back, coiling itself around her arms. She slowly walked through the living area, pausing in the entrance to the kitchen, as she observed Sherlock in silence for a few moments. Sherlock had removed his dinner jacket and placed it over a chair at the table, and was currently rummaging through a cupboard, looking for his favourite cereal. The kettle was boiling on the stove, its bubbling and hissing only adding to Joan's uneasiness. She knew that he would want to be alone, and that he was perhaps angry with her for her role in the events of that evening, but she did not feel able to leave him alone. Not when he was like this. She needed to be sure that he was alright, and she wanted to assure him that, should he wish to, she would be ready to discuss the issue with him fully. She swallowed hard, and pulled her wrap slightly to her, as she prepared to speak.

"Sherlock" she called gently, causing his arm to pause in the air, before lowering itself instantly and continuing to search the cupboard. He did not turn around as she spoke. "Sherlock, could we-"

"Goodnight, Watson" he spoke instantly, his tone one of painful formality. He spoke in the same manner as a manager who was bidding goodbye to a new employee, whose first day had been less than satisfactory.

Joan nodded briefly to herself, and was surprised at the overwhelming feeling of sadness which had begun to consume her. She watched him for a moment, before breathing in sharply and attempting to respond in a manner which would appear confident and unaffected. She failed. "Goodnight" she mumbled in response, before slowly walking from the kitchen and making her way up the stairs. Sherlock paused for a moment, lowering his arms and bracing himself against the kitchen worktop. He tilted his head back and listened to the sound of her high heels clicking as she rushed up the stairs, and closed her door gently behind her. Sherlock exhaled quickly, lowering his head as he made a fist with one hand, and struck the side of the work surface in frustration. He raised his aching hand to his face, running it through his hair as he turned around, preparing himself to walk up the stairs, to follow her, to talk. But he found himself unable to do so, and instead chose to remain in the kitchen for the majority of the night, his hands clasped around the stone-cold tea and uneaten cereal, as he attempted to process the events from the night before.

As soon as Joan entered her room, she closed the door gently behind her, and allowed her silver wrap to fall from her arms. She was surprised at how overcome with tiredness she currently felt, which she instantly put down to the emotionally draining evening which she had just experienced. She closed her eyes and leaned against the back of the door, raising her head towards the ceiling as she attempted to compose herself. Despite her fear and concerns, she knew that there was nothing more that could be done that night. Attempting to talk to Sherlock would simply complicate the matter further, and be extremely counter-productive. As she considered this, she remembered his last words to her, the cold 'good-night' he bade her just moments before. She had been hurt by his coolness, and saddened by his rebuff. But in the time it had taken her to ascend the stairs, she realised that it was just his way of coping, of trying to understand. Her method would be to discuss it, openly and in depth, listening intently to him as he spoke. His way was quite different. He needed to isolate himself, remove himself from everything else, and process the information fully and independently before discussing it with anyone else. She considered how painful his method must be for him, and how lonely and frightening it undoubtedly made him feel. She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning against the door once more, before opening her eyes and walking tiredly across the room. She suddenly felt very warm again, and very constricted, which was not helped by the sharp stinging pain which had returned to her hand. Joan walked across the room and sat on her bed, removing her shoes and jewellery, before standing and depositing the latter back into its ornately decorated box. She stood in front of the mirror for several moments, staring at her own reflection, before being instantly awoken by the cool air which was flooding the room from the open window opposite her. She turned from the window back to the mirror, and began to slowly remove the clips and accessories from her hair, allowing her dark locks to fall gently down her back. She then turned from the mirror and faced the bed, picking up an oversized navy blue shirt from beneath the covers, and laying it out. She reached to her side and undid the dress, allowing it to fall from her body and to the floor, landing in a crumpled heap. She did not look down at the dress, but marvelled in how cool and unrestricted she currently felt. She sighed in satisfaction before reaching for the dark blue shirt and pulling it tiredly over her head, before crawling over her bed and getting under the covers, wrapping herself in the comforting blankets, as she allowed herself a temporary break from her troubled thoughts, and allowing herself to finally rest.

Despite the events of that evening, Joan slept soundly that evening, and was undisturbed by dreams of concerns. Instead, her body allowed her to rest peacefully for the night, which she later attributed to the fact that it must have known that she would require all of her strength later on.

"Watson" came a familiar voice, causing her to turn her head to the side slightly and pull her blankets closer to her. The voice was clear and close by, but she found herself unable to open her eyes to acknowledge it, preferring to encase herself in the safety of her blankets. "Watson" it repeated, more firmly than before, but still in a manner that she found to be refreshingly gentle. "Watson, are you awake?"

Joan's eyes snapped open, and she turned towards the sound of the voice, leaning on her right side. As she did so, she saw the figure of her companion standing just a foot away from her, his arms resting by his sides, and his fingers tapping nervously on his thigh. She rose her eyes to meet his stare, which he evaded instantly, turning from her face to the window.

"Captain Gregson has called, he requires our assistance on a new case" he stated simply, in a low and solemn tone. She watched him with interest, pushing herself up slowly from the bed, and turning towards him to speak. Before she could utter a word, Sherlock continued to talk. "I will be waiting for you downstairs. Please, take your time." His last words were spoken with gentleness and sincerity and were, Joan presumed, his attempt at an apology. She felt slightly relieved by this, sighing contently as she made her way across her room and readied herself for the day ahead.

Ten minutes later, Joan descended the stairs, and found Sherlock waiting patiently in the foyer for her. As she reached the bottom step he walked towards the coat rack, picking up her black coat, and handing it to her. Joan was slightly taken aback by this action. Normally he would hold the coat open for her, helping her to put it on. But not today. She swallowed quickly, taking the coat from him gratefully, and slipping it on as she followed him from the brownstone and to a waiting taxi. Once again, Sherlock held the door open for her in a painfully formal and duty-related manner, before walking across the back of the car and getting into the seat next to her. Despite the oddness of his behaviour, Joan acknowledged that he appeared to be handling the events of the night before, and was still processing them, as well as his own thoughts. She decided to be patient, to wait until he was ready to broach the subject. The first minute or so of the taxi journey was filled with the same eerie silence they had both experienced the night before, but this was changed by the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"We are heading to J and F Dynamics, Watson, a corporate investment firm on the upper-East side. The police received a 911 call from a janitor earlier this morning. He reported to finding the body of Melissa van Vale, CEO, in her office. She appears to have been stabbed to death." He paused for a moment, and Joan nodded in understanding. He cast a brief glance towards her, before turning his head to face forwards once more, and continuing to speak. "Captain Gregson and Detective Bell are already at the scene, and have requested our assistance."

"Do we know when she was killed?" Joan asked cautiously, watching Sherlock carefully for a response.

Sherlock's head moved slightly to the side, facing her for a moment, their eyes meeting. They stared at each other for a few moments, neither of them moving or blinking, before Sherlock broke the gaze and continued to stare forwards once more. "The 911 call was made at 8.47am, just under an hour ago, and Miss van Vale was last seen at 10pm last night by her temporary PA, who had stayed on to prepare some notes for a meeting Miss van Vale was due to have this morning at 9am. So, our victim died at some point between 10pm last night and 8.47am this morning."

"Could the janitor have done it?" Joan asked immediately, watching as Sherlock's lips twitched slightly, as if trying to prevent himself from smiling.

"The janitor was taken to a local hospital after having collapsed shortly after making the call. It appears that he is an elderly gentleman of a nervous disposition, and with a pre-existing heart condition" Sherlock spoke in a low yet gentle tone. "He seems to be an unlikely candidate for such a crime."

"Unlikely, but not impossible" Joan returned, turning her head from him and facing forwards too. Sherlock glanced furtively to the side, watching her with a mixture of caution and satisfaction, before nodding in agreement. Neither of them spoke another word during the next ten minutes of the journey, until the cab pulled over at their destination.

Sherlock and Joan made their way through the building and towards the top-floor, where they were escorted by several familiar police officers to the office of the late Melissa van Vale. The room they entered was large and round, and reminded Joan somewhat of the ballroom from the night before. Sherlock evidently had the same thought, as he tapped his fingers nervously on his thigh and paced the room in an agitated manner. Joan watched him closely for a moment, before taking a few cautious steps towards him, and placing her hand reassuringly on his back.

"Sherlock, I-" she began gently, only to be cut off mid-sentence by the man in question, who turned quickly away from her, as if her touch had physically pained him. Joan's eyes widened with concern and sadness, as she slowly retracted her hand from the air, and allowed it to fall by her side. Gregson and Bell, who had been approaching the pair as this occurred, shared a perplexed look, before standing to address the consulting detectives.

"Holmes, Watson, thanks for coming" Gregson began in a curious manner, as he cast concerned glances from Sherlock to Joan, who was standing a respectable distance away from her partner. "The body's through here, in the inner office." Sherlock nodded quickly, following Gregson through to the office. Detective Bell turned to watch him for a moment, before tilting his head back and focusing his attention on Joan.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, in a tone as equally confused and concerned as the one used by Gregson just moments ago.

"Yeah, it's fine" Joan mumbled, offering him a small smile, as she followed Gregson and Sherlock into the room.

"Clearly" muttered Bell under his breath, following them inside."

The office was large and round, and decorated in an ultra-modern manner. There was a large desk towards the back of the room, which was facing away from the beautiful views from the windows behind it. To the left and right were bookcases filled with texts and framed photographs, which gave the room a feeling of warmth and familiarity. At the far right was an expensively upholstered white sofa and matching armchairs, with a dark wooden coffee table. There was a large table and chairs at the far right of the room, clearly used for small meetings in Miss van Vale's office. The beauty of the room, and the interesting nature of the décor, was completely overshadowed by the startling sight of the body of its occupant, which was lying lifeless upon the ground. Miss van Vale, an attractive and well-dressed woman in her late thirties, lay sprawled across the floor, her dark hair partially concealing her pale face. She was lying on her back, with one arm by her head and the other around her stomach, where several rips in the fabric of her bespoke blouse revealed her injuries, which were betrayed by the blood which had pooled around her.

Joan took a couple of cautious steps towards the body, crouching slightly, as Sherlock stood slightly behind her, surveying the room.

"From the dark shade of the blood, I'd say that Miss van Vale has been dead for at least six to eight hours. Possibly slightly longer." Stated Joan, placing one hand on her knee and pushing herself up from the ground. "She has three stab wounds to the abdomen, and several lacerations to her right hand. They appear to be defensive wounds, she fought back." Joan paused, glancing down at the expression on the woman's face. She was staring up at the ceiling with dark, wild eyes. Joan turned away from her for a moment, walking around her body and examining her from the other side of the room. "She has a small contusion to her temple, suggesting she was struck at least once."

"Not necessarily" spoke Sherlock coolly from the corner. "She could have fallen and struck her head on this large oak desk of hers."

"Possibly." Joan conceded, nodding towards him. He returned her nod, before glancing past her and towards the bookshelves, examining their contents. "Do you know anything else about her?" she asked, turning to Gregson as she spoke.

"Miss Melissa van Vale, thirty-six, CEO of the firm. She's the daughter of the owner a similar company in LA, but a successful business woman in her own right. She was appointed CEO just six months ago, and has been overseeing some business negotiations with companies in other states, which has meant that she has been in her office until the early hours." He finished, closing his notebook and placing his hands in his pockets. Before he could continue, Sherlock began to speak.

"She knew her attacker" he spoke simply, turning from the bookcase and towards the expectant Captain Gregson. "The door to the outer office locks automatically after being shut, and can only be opened from this side. The PA left at ten, meaning that Miss van Vale opened the door to the killer. Now, considering the time of night, it is unlikely she would permit someone who she was not familiar with. Therefore-"

"Could it have been the PA?" Joan asked, looking towards Sherlock, who turned to face her briefly.

"No." He stated simply, his curious eyes darting across the room. "Miss van Vale's PA was picked up by her boyfriend after work and taken to a nearby bar where her favourite band were playing. Multiple witnesses can attest to this, her alibi has already been confirmed."

"How did you-"

"I told him this morning" Gregson spoke, sending the tension in the room. "It was one of the first questions he asked me." Joan nodded in understanding, glancing back towards Sherlock, who was continuing to stare at the bookcase.

"We should head back to the precinct" continued Gregson, walking out of the office. "I'm having my guys go over CCTV footage from this building and surrounding locations, including traffic cams. We're also appealing for witnesses. The PA is coming in for an interview in just over an hour, and I'd like you guys to sit in."

"Of course" stated Sherlock cordially, before walking past Joan and towards Captain Gregson, following him and Bell from the building. Joan sighed to herself, tilting her head back slightly and closing her eyes, before breathing in slowly and following them from the building. Sherlock was evidently not dealing with this as well as she had hoped he would, and she was deeply concerned about him. He clearly was not ready to discuss the subject, but he could not continue acting in this way. Not simply because of the case, but because of him. She could tell how much he was struggling with the events of the previous night, and knew that he was continuing to process them. As she followed Sherlock and the others into Gregson's waiting car, she considered how, perhaps, the fact that they were working on a case would actually be good for Sherlock. She hoped so, at least.

Gregson, Bell, Sherlock and Joan arrived at the precinct minutes later, and busied themselves with putting up crime scene photos onto the boards around the room they were using, and delving into the official and personal files relating to the victim. Sherlock and Bell were discussing something by one of the boards, with Sherlock speaking in an animated fashion and he indicated several of the photos, gesturing emphatically. Despite seeming to be slightly confused, Bell was nodding in agreement, pointing to one photo and saying something, causing Sherlock to nod approvingly. Joan watched the scene with interest, and felt slightly relieved. He was clearly immersing himself in his work, interacting pleasantly with Detective Bell, and discussing ideas openly. _These are good signs_, she thought. As she rose from her spot at the table, Captain Gregson entered the room, holding his phone in his right hand, a look of triumph on his face.

"Captain, what is it?" Joan asked, her voice attracting Sherlock's attention. He watched her as she walked slowly towards Gregson, his eyes resting on her face. He was glad that she was sounding less saddened and dejected than she had done the previous evening, and was relieved that she was throwing herself into her work. As he watched her intently, he felt the familiar pangs of guilt overwhelm him. Not simply for his actions the night before, but for his actions and treatment of her since. He had not wished to appear cold, but he was finding it difficult to deal with the events of the previous night. He also did not wish to overwhelm her, make her feel as though he were pursuing her for his own gratification. He cared about her too much to allow her to be made to feel like that. She was worth far more. As he considered this thought, her eyes rose to meet him, and he looked away instantly, his cheeks flushing with guilt.

Joan could not see his cheeks, just the back of his head, as he turned instantly from her. She felt saddened by this unnecessary action, and wondered how much longer he would be acting in such a manner. Her thoughts were interrupted by Captain Gregson, who was responding to her question.

"I just got off the phone with the PA who left at 10pm last night" he began, looking from Joan to Bell and then to Sherlock. "Lindsey Reynolds. She called to let me know that, due to traffic, she won't be here for her interview in thirty minutes, but about an hour. Anyway" he continued, placing the phone in his pocket and glancing towards Joan as he continued to speak. "She and I got talking on the phone, and she mentioned that her boss, Miss van Vale, had been having an affair with Justin Rogers, a married CEO who works at a rival company." Gregson looked satisfied with this, and Joan could understand why.

"So you think that she threatened to expose the affair for some reason? Which caused him to kill her?" She asked in a low tone, considering the possibility of this theory.

"It's possible" began Sherlock, his focus entirely on Captain Gregson. "Romantic trysts of this nature can often lead to obsession or irrationality." As soon as he spoke, he realised the implications of his words. His breath caught in this throat and he felt his palms become clammy, and he was certain that Joan was staring at him. He had not meant to imply that she was obsessed or irrational, in fact, he held her to be quite the opposite of both of these negative traits. Nor did he consider the unsavoury affair between a married man and his mistress to be in the same league as the levels of closeness and emotional intimacy they shared the night before. But as soon as he spoke, he regretted his words. Not the words per se, but how he believed Joan would interpret them. And she did.

"I'm gonna get some coffee" Joan announced, turning back towards the table and removing her wallet from her bag. "Would anyone like some?" She walked quickly past Gregson towards the door, resting her hand upon the handle and opening it wide, leaving the room before anyone had a chance to answer.

"Watson-" Sherlock spoke in a low and regretful tone, one which was so low that he was certain she had missed it. He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing them with his hands, before turning back towards the board. "Do you have any further details on Mr Rogers?"

Joan walked quickly through the precinct and swung open the doors, sighing in relief as cool, fresh air greeted her on the street. She stood at the top of the stone steps and exhaled deeply, before clutching her wallet closely to her side, and crossing the street to her usual coffee shop. She found herself calmed by the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee, and sighed in relief to find that the shop was almost empty. She was glad to have arrived after the early-morning coffee rush. As she queued up and ran a hand through her hair, she found herself feeling slightly calmer than she had done before, as if soothed by the scent of the coffee beans. From the time it took for her to walk to the shop from the precinct, her mind had been completely devoted to recalling the exact words Sherlock had used in that room. She understood that he was upset and confused, but she felt that she did not deserve that. She sighed in frustration, before feeling herself once more becoming calm. Perhaps he had not meant those words, or at least, if he had, maybe they were not directed at her. It was possible, and she knew it. But as she ran over the words in her mind, she found it more and more difficult to distance herself and her actions the previous night from the unsavoury woman he was describing. Was she obsessing? Was she becoming irrational? She was pondering this question as the barrista took her order and handed her her coffee, and was so consumed by the thought, that she walked straight into an incoming patron, spilling the coffee down her shirt.

"Oh, wow, God, I am so, so sorry-" came the voice of the mysterious man.

Joan sighed, smiling embarrassedly as she looked up at him, preparing herself to speak. "No, really, it was my-" she stopped. The man was tall, handsome, and had a beautiful and arresting pair of dark eyes, which were staring at her with concern. "Fault" she continued, barely above a whisper.

"No, Miss, really-" he continued nervously, taking the empty cup from her hand and passing her some napkins. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I... will you allow me to buy you another cup?" he asked flirtatiously, flashing her a bright, dazzling smile. Joan smiled back at him, using the napkins to remove some of the coffee from her blouse, and pulling the soaked material away from her skin.

"Thanks but I... I'm actually working right now" she stated, meeting his gaze once more. "And I'm not really dressed for morning coffee-"

"- you're dressed in it" the man interrupted, smiling at her sheepishly. She returned his smile and laughed politely, before attempting to move past him and towards the door. The coffee was very hot and her skin was burning, so she wished to return to the precinct immediately to change. "But really, miss, I-"

"Joan" she said, turning back to face him.

"I'm Jake" he replied, nodding at her politely. "Well, Joan, would you allow me to take you to coffee another time, perhaps? To make up for my clumsiness?"

"That's not necessary, really" she began warmly, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "It was an accident, and it's fine, so I-"

"Well, regardless of whose fault it was" he continued, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pen. "I'd love to be able to have coffee with you sometime."

Joan opened her mouth to speak, but found herself unable to form the words. She was still recovering from the events of the last night and this morning, and her skin really was beginning to feel sore. She appreciated the stranger's kindness and consideration, but it was not necessary.

"Look, I-" she began.

"Okay, well, could we exchange numbers? I'll call you sometime and, if you're not interested, that's fine." He said, smiling politely.

Joan returned his polite smile, and nodded. She appreciated his kindness, and he seemed to be a nice, kind person. It would be nice to spend some time with a person she was unfamiliar with, and perhaps distract her from the issues which were currently concerning her. She nodded once more, more confidently this time, before accepting his pen and quickly writing her number down upon an unsoiled napkin, and handing it to him with care.

"Look, I've really got to-"

"Work? Yeah, of course. No problem, thank you." He stated, holding the napkin to his face and smiling at her once more, as she said goodbye to him and walked towards the door, smiling slightly as she crossed the street and headed back to the precinct. The chance encounter with a kind stranger had reassured her, and provided her with a degree of confidence and contentment which had eluded her in the past twelve hours. She was grateful for his kindness, and for the effect it had on her. Whilst she was not sure that she viewed him as a potential romantic partner, she thought that they could perhaps be friends.

Joan walked through the precinct and back into the room, passing Sherlock and Captain Gregson, who stopped speaking the moment he saw her. Her white blouse was saturated in a dark liquid, and she was making a beeline for her bag, pulling out a spare shirt as he and Sherlock watched her with interest. Before Gregson could speak, Sherlock turned to face her, taking a few steps in her direction as she turned around, holding the shirt in front of her.

"Watson, are you alright?" he asked, genuine concern clear in her voice. Joan was surprised by this, and lifted her gaze to meet his, nodding quickly as she did so.

"Yeah, fine" she returned immediately, walking past him. "Just an accident in the coffee shop, it's nothing." Sherlock watched as she slowly made her way to the bathroom, and continued to stare at the door for a few moments as he processed his thoughts. She seemed to be okay, and not clearly offended or hurt by his actions. At least, he hoped that this was the case. As he considered his thoughts, his attention was drawn to the opening of the bathroom door, as Joan emerged from it and began to walk back towards the room. Sherlock decided that he could not wait, he needed to talk to her, to explain. Not the night before, perhaps, he was not sure that either of them were ready for that. But he needed to make sure that she realised that his most recent gaffe was not some intentional slur against her. He walked from the office and towards Joan, whose attention was not on him, but on something else. She paused mid-step, reached her hand into her pocket, and slowly drew out her phone, staring with confusion at the unfamiliar ID. She turned back to face the bathroom, placing on hand on her hip as Sherlock continued to walk towards her.

"Joan Watson" she answered, holding the phone to her ear.

"Hey, Joan. It's Jake." Came the familiar voice. "Now's later, right?" Joan laughed politely, tilting her head back slightly as she did so. Sherlock stood nervously behind her for a moment, just a couple of steps away, and was staring nervously across the precinct, waiting politely for her to finish her phone call. She spoke with the person on the other end for a few moments, her voice sounding happy and conversational. From her tone and her demeanour, Sherlock knew that she was talking to man. For some reason, which he could not explain, this made his chest ache slightly, and his heart feel heavy.

"Tonight? Um-" Joan paused, thinking over everything that was going on at the moment. The case demanded her attention, as did the incident with Sherlock. But she found herself wondering whether, perhaps, an evening away from both of those things would benefit them more than her placing her complete and undivided attention upon them. She nodded in satisfaction, before replying to Jake's request. "I'd love to, Jake, thanks. Yeah, see you at eight."

Joan hung up the phone, and her arm fell to her side. Sherlock stood there for a moment, feeling confused and slightly saddened, before turning on the spot and walking back towards the room. By the time Joan turned around, he was already back by the board, examining the photographs and reviewing other evidence, as if he had never left at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Joan hung up the phone and found herself smiling slightly. The conversation she had just had somehow made her feel slightly more uplifted, and she felt although she still had qualities which were appreciated by others. She was still someone who was liked, was respected and was deemed worthy of the time of others. She glanced down at her watch and found that it was currently just before twelve, meaning that she had just over eight hours before meeting Jake for dinner at his apartment. Although she was looking forward to spending time with someone in an informal setting, and having adult conversations which would not revolve around death or gore, she could not help but feel slightly restless and dejected. She did not understand why this was, which puzzled her deeply. After a few moments of consideration, she decided that this was probably due to her current concerns over her relationship with Sherlock, who was still acting in a strange and fairly cold manner. She hoped that the evening she had planned would help to relax her, and provide her with a new perspective, which would help her to have an open and productive discussion with Sherlock, which would hopefully resolve the issues between them. She nodded to herself, placing her phone back in her pocket, and strolling confidently back towards the room that she had been working in with Sherlock and the police.

Sherlock, Joan, Gregson and Bell spent the next few hours in that room, reviewing information and collecting witness testimony. Miss van Vale's temporary PA, Jodie Haren, had arrived shortly after 3pm, but had been of relatively little help. She confirmed that her employer was engaged in an illicit relation ship with the married CEO she named earlier, and expanded upon this briefly. She informed the police that she had caught them kissing in the victim's office the week before, and stated that van Vale threatened to fire her if she told anyone. Miss Haren assured her that she would not tell anyone, which her employer seemed to believe.

"But after that" the nervous PA offered, twisting her hands uncomfortably in her lap, "she said something quite odd..."

"Which was?" prompted Gregson, after the confused-looking young woman continued to stare out of a window to her right. Her attention was drawn from the window and back to the police by the sound of Gregson's voice.

"Oh, yes, sorry" she began, shaking her head slightly. "She said that it would be of 'little importance' soon enough, as they wouldn't have to hide it for much longer." Gregson nodded in understanding, considering this new piece of information with interest. "Is there anything else I can help you with? Only, my boyfriend is waiting for-"

"No, Miss Haren, thank you. You've been a great help." Gregson rose, extending his arm to the young woman and smiling at her politely, as she gathered her things and slowly left the room.

"So her alibi definitely checks out?" asked Joan quietly, as soon as the door had closed behind the departing woman.

"Yeah, yeah, beyond reproach" responded Gregson immediately, rubbing his forehead tiredly. Joan nodded.

"Makes sense. It seems unlikely that she would volunteer the fact that her boss threatened to fire her, when she was being questioned in relation to her brutal murder." Joan stated absent-mindedly, looking down at her watch. It was three-thirty. "But we know that she was having an affair with Justin Rogers, and it seems as though it was about to be revealed."

"Yes, but perhaps not due to Miss van Vale's cruelty or anger" Sherlock interposed, leaning his chin on the back of his hand. "Miss Haren said that the victim claimed that the revelation of her affair would not matter soon enough, as they would 'not have to hide it for much longer'. The use of the term 'they' and 'not have to' implies that she _and_ her lover were planning on coming clean, as it were. Based on her audacity, and the fact that she did not want the information revealed immediately, I would guess that Mr Rogers was planning on leaving his wife, but implored his lover to keep their relationship a secret until after the finalisation of the divorce."

Joan considered this for a moment, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, yeah I think you're right." She stated, fixing her glance on him. Sherlock looked slowly towards her, raising his eyes to meet her own, before nodding in acknowledgement. "I mean, it seems like that would remove his motive to kill her. She clearly wanted to keep their relationship quiet for the meantime and, as they were going to reveal it eventually, why would he-"

"Perhaps she grew impatient" Sherlock offered, removing his head from his hands and standing up straight. "Perhaps the discussion with the PA riled her, made her realise that she hated hiding her relationship with him." Sherlock spoke simply, glancing from Gregson to Bell, then over towards Joan. "Perhaps she didn't feel able or willing to conceal it any more."

Before Joan could respond, the precinct was filled with the sound of an angry man's raised voice, which was becoming louder and louder. Gregson looked up in confusion, walking towards the door of the room, and passing through it. Bell was at his side, and Sherlock and Joan followed slightly behind, concerned as to what was causing the disruption. In the middle of the precinct was stood a tall, handsome man in his early fifties, well-dressed and with an unmistakable air of authority. Behind him were three middle-aged men in dark suits, holding briefcases and looking confidently around the precinct, eyeing the officers with a mixture of wariness and disdain.

The well-dressed man turned to Gregson and took a few steps forward, before pausing and nodding politely, and beginning to speak. "My name is Justin Rogers, and I have come in to give a statement. I want to make it clear that I-"

"Mr Rogers" interrupted Sherlock, taking a few steps forwards and standing by Gregson's side. "What a coincidence. A statement, you say?" He began cautiously and yet in an animated fashion, clasping his hands in front of him and nodding as Rogers confirmed his previous statement. "Then may enquire as to why you feel the need for a legion of lawyers? If, as you say, you simply wish to give a statement?"

"Because I know how you people work" he stated acerbically, glaring hard at Sherlock, whose expression was impassive. "I am not going to allow you to fling mud at me or my company over... over this tragedy."

"And by 'this tragedy', do you mean the death of your mistress?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side slightly as he spoke. "Or the fact that you have been dragged away from Wall Street?" Rogers looked at Sherlock coldly, before breathing in deeply and turning back towards Gregson. Joan had been watching this scene with interest, and was wondering why Sherlock was acting in such a manner. It was almost as if he were goading him. Like he wanted him to react, to lash out. She sensed the rising anger of the CEO, and quickly took a step forward, standing in front of Sherlock as she addressed Rogers.

"Mr Rogers, I'm Joan Watson, I'm working with the police in the investigation of Miss van Vale's death" she spoke in a polite and kind manner. "I'm very sorry for your loss." Mr Rogers looked at her for a moment, a mixture of confusion and surprise in his expression, before nodding at her and thanking her in a low, solemn tone. "Would you come through to an interview room with us? We'll make this as... as fast and as easy for you as we can."

"Thank you, Miss Watson" he responded, nodding to her politely before turning back to face Sherlock. "I will, of course, assist you in any way I can."

Gregson thanked Mr Rogers and led him and his convoy of solicitors to a free interview room, requesting some nearby officers to bring in some additional chairs. As Bell entered the room behind them, Sherlock turned to follow, but was stopped from doing so by Joan, who stood in front of him and addressed him with confidence.

"Sherlock" she said gently, but in a tone which commanded attention. "What is it?"

He looked at her blankly for a moment, with a cool and impassive expression that betrayed nothing of how he felt. He shrugged slightly and narrowed his eyes in confusion, before attempting to move past her once more. She stepped in front of him again, placing her hand gently upon his chest, which caused him to stop immediately. He did not move away from her touch this time, but remained perfectly still, watching her with interest as she continued to speak.

"I get it. The guy is not only a banker, but a wealthy, arrogant and hypocritical ass" she stated simply, removing her hand from his chest and crossing her arms with conviction. "But what I don't get is why he bothers you so much." Sherlock watched her for a moment, and she was aware of the extremely sad and forlorn look which had overtaken his features as he stared at her with warm yet frightened eyes. He shifted uncomfortably on the spot, before turning towards her and beginning to speak.

"The interview is commencing, Watson" Sherlock stated, glancing from her to the room. "We should assist the police." He then walked instantly past her and towards the interview room, opening the door slowly and peering inside. He breathed in slowly, trying to calm himself, before stepping through and holding the door open for Joan. They took their seats by the police, at the opposite side of the table, and turned to face Mr Rogers and his three lawyers. Gregson leaned towards Sherlock, giving him a look of warning, before turning towards Mr Rogers and beginning to question him.

The interview was fairly lengthy, and could hardly be described as productive. All it really achieved was to confirm what the police already knew, and what Sherlock had accurately deduced. Yes, Rogers had been having an affair with the victim, and yes, he had been planning on leaving his wife for her. He also confirmed Sherlock's theory, that he and van Vale were keeping their relationship secret until after his divorce, to minimise his wife's claims to his vast fortune. At this point of the interview Joan noticed Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, and his breathing increase. She watched him with caution for a few moments, and was relieved to see him relax a few moments later. She found herself wondering what could be causing him to act in such a manner, and to have such clear and unapologetic disdain for a man he did not know. Joan's attention shifted perplexedly from Rogers to Sherlock throughout the interview, as she continued to try and figure out what it was about the man that so riled her partner. Even two hours later, as the interview was concluded, she was no closer to unravelling the mystery. The only explanation that she could come up with was that he represented the people Sherlock disliked: wealthy individuals using their power to command authority over others. He had come in, armed with lawyers in expensive suits, and treated the precinct like his own private club. _Perhaps it's a territory _thing, Joan mused, remembering how Sherlock had walked towards the man and addressed him as he had entered. _Like two dogs meeting by the same lamp-post. _When Rogers and his attorneys left the room at the end of the interview, Joan was understandably relieved, and glanced towards Sherlock to find that he was visibly more calm and relaxed than he had been before. Overall, she was fairly impressed with his conduct. He had asked some intrusive questions during the interview, but never once came close to crossing the line. It was a sign of considerable restraint, which she was glad of. As she considered this, she cast a brief glance down towards her watch, realising it was already six o'clock.

"So" Gregson spoke, leaning onto the table as the doors closed behind the departed man and his lawyers. "Whaddya think?"

"I think he is telling the truth" Sherlock stated, rising from his seat and pulling on his jacket. "Although I am certain that he was planning on leaving his wife for the victim, we cannot prove it conclusively. However, the fact that he was having an affair with her is, ironically, one of the strongest indicators of his innocence." Joan watched Sherlock with confusion, as he adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, before continuing to speak. "The thing he feared was the effect of the news to his reputation or his marriage. No, not his marriage. His divorce. Killing this woman would attract more negative attention towards him than simply casting her aside. He must have known that, if he harmed her, the chances of their relationship being revealed would be fairly high. She almost certainly would have informed her of her conversation with the frightened PA. It would make more sense to him, a man of ruthless intelligence and clear thoughts, to simply leave her, and then deny any allegations made in relation to their affair later." Sherlock pulled his gloves from his pockets and began to put them on, causing the nodding Captain Gregson to look at him with confusion.

"Are you going somewhere, Holmes?" he asked, as Sherlock continued to put on his gloves, not looking towards Gregson as he spoke.

"Miss Watson and I need to be off, Captain. But I will take copies of the files home and consider them this evening. We will both join you in the morning." Gregson, despite looking slightly perplexed, nodded politely at Sherlock, thanking him and Joan for their help. Joan watched Sherlock with confusion, but he was escorting her from the room before she could speak. When they were out in the corridor, she began to pull on her own coat and scarf, and question him as to what was going on.

"Where are we going?"

"Home, Watson" he stated simply, walking briskly through the corridor and towards the exit, looking towards her as he spoke. "I presumed that you would wish to have some time to get ready." Joan looked up at him for a moment, her eyes wide and slightly confused.

"Ready?" she asked, before realisation struck her. He knew. Somehow he knew that she was going out that evening. "How can... how did you-"

"I was in the precinct when you took a phone call earlier today, and I overheard part of your conversation" he spoke in an amiable tone, which struck Joan as being remarkably normal and pleasant. "I wasn't eavesdropping, Watson. I was going to talk to you, but when I realised you were on the phone, I-"

"Right" she said gently, in a tone of understanding. Sherlock reached forward and held the door open for her, which she passed through quickly, before turning back to him as they reached the street. "Thank you" she stated gently, looking up at him. He seemed to be uncertain of what she was thanking him for, and even less certain of how to react. He nodded quickly, before offering her a kind and reassuring expression.

"It is quite alright, Watson." He stated, which alleviated the guilt which she felt, although could not explain. "Again, I apologise if it seemed I was intruding. I assure you it was not my intention." Joan nodded, and before she could address the issue further, Sherlock had walked past her and hailed a cab. He spoke to the driver briefly, before turning from him and holding the back door open for Joan, who lingered for a moment in the space between the door and the car.

"Sherlock are you-" she paused for a moment, placing her hand on the top of the car door and turning towards him. She had done this subconsciously, and was acutely unaware of how close their hands were to each other. Sherlock, however, was not so oblivious. "Will you be okay tonight?" He looked at her with confusion, before removing his hand from the car door and preparing to speak. However, he was interrupted by Joan before he got the chance. "It's just... you didn't seem quite yourself in there. Earlier, I mean" she stated simply, yet with a notable air of concern present in her tone. "If you need to talk, I-"

"I assure you, Watson" he began, in a normal and pleasant tone. "I am quite alright. I will be perusing these case files whilst you are-" he paused for a moment, searching for the right words. From her tone and language earlier, he knew that she was going on a date. At first he had felt overwhelmingly sad and hurt by this, which he attempted to dispel, as he did not quite understand why he felt so. But as he considered it further, he realised that he should be encouraging her. Since her kidnapping ordeal, she had not been out as much. Not just in terms of dates, but in terms of other social gatherings too. And when she was on the phone earlier, it was the first time in over a month that he had heard her voice contain the familiar sweet, kind and bubbly tone that he adored. He was glad of it, and believed that tonight would be good for her. She seemed almost happy. Or, at least, as close to being happy as she had been in recent weeks. "Whilst you are out." He nodded pleasantly to her, before holding the door open slightly wider, and indicating the back seat of the cab. "It is already ten past six, Watson, and the meter is running" He spoke pleasantly, leaning back on his heels as he addressed her in good humour. She smiled, warmly and gratefully, before thanking him and getting into the cab. They spent the rest of the journey to the brownstone discussing the case, and considering their next move. During the brief taxi ride, and their conversation, Joan found herself feeling much happier. Sherlock seemed to be almost his usual self, and was no longer acting as coldly or as aloof as he had been. Instead, he was engaging her in conversation, was clearly interested in her opinion, and was welcoming her input. This was his apology. It was how it always was, she reasoned. He did occasionally say he was sorry, and he always meant it, of that she was certain. But she also knew how difficult it was for him, which is what made moments like this so special and so important. And she relished them. Each and every one.

As the cab pulled up outside the brownstone, Sherlock got out immediately, walking around the car and holding Joan's door open for her. She unhooked her seatbelt and looked up at him gratefully. Instead of standing to the side and out of view, like he had been the night before, he was right in front of her, offering her his hand once more. She accepted it, and he drew her gently from the car, where they remained standing on the pavement, staring at each other intently. As she remained on her spot, her hand in his, their eyes fixed on each other, she became overwhelmed by a familiar, indescribable emotion. It was the same draw, the same feeling of need and of adoration, that she had felt the night before. Standing in front of him now, their hands delicately entwined, reminded her of their dance. She felt her breathing increase slightly as she continued to stare up at him, meeting the kind look of adoration which was emanating from his wide, warm eyes. They remained like this for several moments, neither of them wanting to relinquish the gentle hold upon the other. It was incredible, really. They had left the building that morning with Joan wondering whether he would speak to her civilly that day, and they returned the same way they had left the night before, emotionally linked and gently connected.

"Watson" he stated gently, his voice low and completely calm. The tone he used caused Joan's heart to beat slightly faster, and her breathing to increase. She was also fairly certain that she was blushing. Sherlock nodded briefly, before removing his hand from hers and moving towards the taxi driver, paying him quickly, whilst Joan watched him with interest, her hand still tingling from the memory of his touch. She considered the strangeness of the past few minutes as she ascended the steps with Sherlock, and was puzzled as to why they had acted that way, and what had caused it. She could not remember the events which led to it, but was overwhelmed by the same feeling of familiarity she experienced before. Familiarity, as well as the feeling that it was natural, and so right. _It was his apology_, she reasoned, drawing herself from her slightly puzzled thoughts. _He is showing me that he is sorry_. Although she repeated this in her head several times, she could not quite convince herself to believe it. Deep down, she knew it was something different, that there was something more. She wondered if he thought this too.

Joan was drawn from her thoughts by the sound of the door closing gently behind her, causing her to turn instinctively to face him. She offered him a warm smile, removing her scarf and coat in silence, as he did the same. They placed their coats next to each other on the coat rack, before turning to face each other. Sherlock was standing still, reaching into the pocket of his hung-up coat, and withdrawing his phone. Joan had removed her scarf, and was draping it across her own coat. Neither were paying attention to what they were doing, and Joan found her fingers brushing against Sherlock's hand, which had been securing the top of his coat to the rack. As she did so, she found her breathing increasing once more, and turned to find him watching her with soft, gentle eyes. Her heart was racing.

"I-" she began, slowly removing her hands from the coat rack and placing them by her sides. "I should go and get ready. Is there anything you need before I-"

"No" Sherlock returned immediately, turning towards the coat rack as he spoke. "Everything is quite alright, Watson, please continue." She nodded in response, which he did not see, before walking slowly up the steps and towards her room. Sherlock continued to stare at the coat in front of him for a few moments, before inhaling deeply at the sound of her door closing gently behind her. He closed his eyes and pressed his hand to the wall, before resting one hand on his forehead and rubbing it soothingly. He was feeling incredibly confused, unable to process the events of the night before, and his feelings during the day. He opened his eyes slowly, glancing up the stairs and towards her room, before closing them tightly once more. He remained like this for a few moments, nodding to himself briefly, before walking into the living area with the files from the police station, and taking up a seat on the floor, before spreading the files around him. He needed to work, to do something, anything, to distract him from the confusion and uncertainty of his own thoughts. He remained like this, arranging and rearranging the files, for almost an hour, before Joan Watson descended the stairs and stepped into the living room.

She was wearing a black skit and heels, a silky white blouse and a fitted black jacket. Her hair was down and her eyes were bright, but there was something about her which seemed out of place. Despite being dressed for an evening out, her expression was that of a person being coerced into chaperoning a relative on a date. She shifted slightly on the spot, and watched Sherlock for several moments, before attempting to speak.

"I'll see you later" she stated simply, resting one harm on the door frame as she spoke.

Sherlock looked towards her face, and offered her a polite and sincere look of reassurance, which she accepted willingly. "Yes. Yes, have a nice evening, Watson" he stated, before staring immediately back down at his files, embarrassed by his own forwardness. Joan nodded, before turning on the spot and walking through the foyer and out of the brownstone. As soon as the heavy door closed behind her, Sherlock lifted his gaze, and focused it on the now-empty spot which had just been occupied by Joan Watson.

Joan spent the drive to Jake's apartment considering the events of the past twenty-four hours, which felt as though they had lasted an eternity. Despite his actions today, it was clear that the issues of the previous night were far from resolved. And, although he seemed to be in good spirits today, it was clear that he was still feeling conflicting, and battling with the same feelings of uncertainty and confusion that she herself had been experiencing. Although, the more she thought about it, and the more she remembered about his touch, his movements, and his kind and gentle words the night before, the more she began to realise that she was no longer confused. This revelation struck her as she pulled up outside Jake's apartment complex, and she found herself feeling nervous and overcome with feelings of fear and anticipation. Her relationship with Sherlock had always been complicated, and almost transcendent of the existing relationships which she had with various other people. It seemed to be above description and beyond definition, which is why it was always so fluid, so uncertain. And yet, it was constantly changing and developing. As she got out of her car, walked into the building and towards the elevator, she considered whether, perhaps, the night before had been just the latest, and most inevitable, stage of its evolution. Or its beginning, at least.

As she pressed the button to take her to Jake's floor, Joan suddenly found herself feeling guilty and slightly apprehensive. Jake seemed lovely, very kind and very considerate, and he radiated warmth and comfort. Perhaps that was why she had felt drawn to him, and given him his number. At that moment, she had been feeling isolated, alone, separated from the person she had been closest to. She was looking for comfort, and she found it. As the elevator doors opened onto his floor, and she stepped cautiously out, she was immediately struck by the awareness of her current situation, and her motivation for agreeing to the date. And she felt as though she had used him. She sighed to herself, holding her purse to her side and rubbing her eyes with her free hand, as she slowly made her way towards his door. She hadn't realised it before, she was unaware that she was using him. But now that she realised, she felt awful. She hoped that, perhaps, they could have an enjoyable, friendly evening, and that would be all. Her previous conversation with Sherlock, and her reviewing of her own thoughts on the journey over, had led her to come to a new and startling conclusion about the nature of their relationship. She did not know what she wanted, or what he would be willing to give or to take. But amongst all the confusion, she found herself understanding something completely, and without question: she did not view Jake in a romantic manner. Not at all. And as he opened the door to her, smiling at her warmly, she realised that she never did.

But she still felt that she owed him. He was kind to her, had been gracious enough to ask her to dinner, and she would make sure that they had a nice evening. She thought it was the least she could do, the absolute minimum he deserved. They would have dinner, talk, and she would leave, and try to focus her energy on understanding what it was that was happening between herself and Sherlock, before they both found themselves consumed by their own confusion and desires.

"Hey, Joan" he greeted her warmly, standing back and inviting her in. "So glad you could make it. Please." He stretched out an arm and indicated the interior of the apartment. She smiled, nodding to him politely as she entered. The corridor was fairly long and wide, and she could see the entrance to the kitchen on the left, the bedroom in front, and the living and dining area to the right. The apartment was light and airy, and not completely unlike her own former residence. As she took a step into the building, she paused instantly, glancing at a glass cabinet to her left.

"Is that-"

Jake turned instantly, his eyes wide with interest. He parted his lips and smiled widely, seeing that her attention was firmly fixed upon the case of antique medical items which were displayed by the door.

"Oh, yeah, kinda creepy, right? They were my grandfather's. He was a surgeon in France, during the war. He bought these back, and they've been in the family ever since. I inherited them recently, and have no idea where to put them. So they're resting here for the time being." He laughed nervously, running his hand through his hair as Joan surveyed the contents with interest.

"It's a pretty impressive collection" she stated absent-mindedly, as she scanned the content with interest. "I think you need a new case though" she muttered, looking towards him. "The glass in this one is cracked."

"Is it?" he asked, moving towards the case. He leaned in slightly, and Joan felt his arm brush lightly against hers, and she was surprised by what she felt.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. She did not feel warmth or comfort, or an indescribable emotion which caused her to feel breathless and weightless, and although she were floating. She did not feel the comfort, and the feeling of longing and desire, which she experienced when she and Sherlock connected, even if just for a moment. She stared at the case for a moment, her eyes wide, as she realised that not only did she feel nothing for Jake, but what she felt for Sherlock was quite something. The opposite of nothing. But still, she was confused. She knew how it made her feel, she remembered how she felt the night before. How she quivered at his touch, how she was comforted by the warmth of his breath on her ear, and how his strong arms wrapped around her made her feel safe and almost invincible. She found her gaze drifting wearily over to Jake, who was watching her with interest.

"Dinner's almost ready" he stated simply, leading her towards the kitchen. "Would you like some wine?"

"Uh..." she mumbled, still finding herself focused on the evening before, her mind running over the moves of their dance yet again. "No, thanks" she stated eventually, as he walked from the kitchen and looked at her with confusion, due to the fact that she had not responded. "Not a great idea, I'm driving."

"Oh" he said, before breaking into his trademark warm smile. "That's fine. Er... coffee?"

"Great, thanks." Joan smiled, walking towards the kitchen as she spoke to him. She knew that she did not want to be involved with him romantically, but she still wanted to make sure that he had a nice evening. They could eat, talk, spend some time together, then depart as friends, and reflect pleasantly on the evening. She was grateful for his friendship, and hoped that hers would be enough for him. "So, what is it you do, Jake?"

Joan spent the next two hours with Jake, and found that they had much in common. They ate a delicious dinner and dessert, had engaging conversations, and enjoyed each other's company thoroughly. Joan glanced down at her watch, finding that it was almost half-past ten.

"Ah, you know, I really should get going" she began, placing her glass on the table as she rose from her seat. "I have working in the morning, and-"

"Oh, really?" Jake asked, placing his own glass down and quickly following her across the room. "Can't you stay a little longer? I mean, we've been having such a great time, I-"

"I know, thank you. I'm glad you've had a nice time, I have too" she stated, picking up her jacket from the back of her seat and hanging it over her left arm. "But I really need to get going. Thank you for everything, dinner was wonderful." She smiled warmly at him, before turning to walk from the apartment. She took a few steps down the corridor, and was so lost in her thoughts that she did not realise that he was behind her. He took a few steps towards her and reached out his arms gently, placing both hands on her shoulders and pulling her back lightly as he called her name.

At that moment, Joan panicked. She found the sensation, the feeling of two large hands on the shoulders, pulling her slightly backwards, to be a trigger for a memory which she had been desperately trying to suppress. As soon as she felt his hands on her, from behind, with no warning, she found herself immersed in the memory of her kidnap. The man who took her, who grabbed her forcefully by the shoulders, and held her tightly. She was immediately filled with feelings of overwhelming fear and dread, so powerful and so strong that she felt herself unable to breathe, to consider, or to reason. At that moment, she panicked. Joan turned on the spot, moving quickly away from his outstretched arms. She acted so quickly and in such a frightened manner, that she lost her footing and found herself falling to the side, the left side of her body crashing into the glass case by the front door.

"Joan!" Jake yelled, rushing towards her and trying to assist her, panic and fear etched on his face. "Joan, I am so sorry, I... Joan, Joan are you alright?"

Joan found herself sobered instantly by the sound of his worried voice, and the sight of his face, which was brimming with concern. She opened her eyes wide and glanced around her curiously, before the searing pain in her left shoulder brought her back to reality. She inhaled sharply, and slowly and gently disengaged her arm from the shattered glass of the display cabinet. Jake was helping her, pushing back some of the glass with one hand, and supporting her with the other. This time, she was not afraid or frightened by his touch. He was in front of her, he was talking to her, and he was clearly upset. Despite her injury, she felt her breathing slowly returning to normal, and she found herself overwhelmed by the need to help him, to comfort him, to explain.

"Joan I'm so sorry, I... I never meant for-"

"It wasn't you, it was-" Joan muttered, clasping her right hand tightly to her arm. Her white blouse was torn and shredded, and pieces of broken glass were caught on her shirt, and embedded in her skin. The lacerations were not too deep, but there were quite a few of them. Blood was pooling from her shoulder, and she could feel the sticky substance trailing slowly down her arm. "I overreacted, I-"

"No, Joan, please, I... I never should have touched you. I was just... I didn't even apply pressure, I mean-"

"No, I know, I... you just caught me by surprise is all." She stated amiably, pursing her lips tightly together as he helped her to her feet. "Please, don't worry, it was an accident. Really" she stated, in a tone which sounded almost like her normal voice. She was surprised at how confident she sounded, how clear-headed and reasonable she was being. She always was with other people, but not with herself, and not alone. Inside, she was trembling.

"I am so, so sorry Joan, I... it was wrong of me to-"

"Please, it's fine" Joan stated, adjusting her grip on her arm. "I'm sorry about your cabinet" she said cautiously, casting a regretful look towards the broken cabinet, fallen medical equipment and cascade of broken glass. "I'm sorry that I-"

"You have nothing to apologise for, Joan" he stated kindly, passing her a white scarf that was on the coat-rack behind him, and attempting to put it over her bleeding arm. Before he could do so, she tilted her arm away from him, before looking up at his wide-eyes with a look of kindness and reassurance.

"Thanks, but I... I'm fairly sure there's glass in the wound, and I don't-"

"Please, Joan, let me take you to the ER, okay? Or can I call you an ambulance?" He asked, relinquishing his hold on the scarf, and allowing it to fall helplessly to the ground. He looked so sad and so frightened that Joan almost forgot about her pain.

"No, God no, thanks, really, I'm fine" she stated kindly, in a calm tone which sounded much more confident than she felt. "It looks worse than it is, really."

"You should see a doctor, Joan, I really think that-"

"I am a doctor" she stated, more bluntly than she had intended. "At least, I was, I mean... it's complicated, but really, I'm fine. I should go."

"Joan, please, you have to let me-"

"Really, it's okay" she stated, adjusting her hold on her arm as she held her bag close to her body. "I will be fine, really. It was an accident, I overreacted and I fell, it was not your fault."

"It was" he said solemnly, his eyes wide and panicked. "I am so, so sorry. I never should have-"

"It really wasn't you" she spoke kindly, offering him a kind smile. "I'm fine, really. It's okay." She gave him another warm smile, before moving slowly to open the door, and passing out into the hallway. She could feel him watching her, his anxiety was 'practically audible', to borrow Sherlock's phrase. She walked quickly towards the elevator, pressed the button to the ground floor, and watched the frightened and sorrowful expression on his face, offering him a small smile as the elevator doors closed slowly behind her, and she felt herself slowly descending. As soon as the doors clicked shut, and she felt herself begin to move, Joan dropped her head slightly and found herself beginning to cry. She sobbed a couple of times, and could feel her whole body beginning to shake. She placed her right hand over her mouth to try to calm herself, and took in a few deep breaths.

It was not her injury that was upsetting her, it was her reaction, her reaction to an event upstairs which had been a complete accident. She knew that Jake had applied only the smallest amount of pressure on her shoulders, and had been attempting to gain her attention, not to hurt her. He was not acting in a frightening or domineering fashion at all, of that she was absolutely positive. But as she leaned back against the wall of the elevator, she found herself considering what it was that had caused her to react as she had done, which had led to her injury. Over the past few weeks she had been thinking of her attack, and found that small things would remind her of her ordeal. She had not been able to drink vodka or use a box cutter since the incident, and had not been alone in dark alleys alone at night. But she thought she was getting better, she believed that she was recovering. And until the night before, when she placed her hand upon the jacket she was wearing when she was taken, she thought that the flashbacks had ended. Clearly, she had been wrong. The one she had just experienced was so clear and so vivid that it seemed almost real to her, she could not distinguish it from reality.

As she felt the elevator reach the ground floor, she lifted her head confidently, breathing in sharply as she rubbed her eyes with her right hand, before holding her arm once more. She knew that she was still bleeding, but was fairly certain that her injuries were minor. She glanced down at her shoulder briefly, and could see the blood and glass matted into her torn blouse. As the elevator doors opened, she took a few steps forward, wincing as she felt pieces of glass cutting her arm, injuring her further. By the time she walked through the empty foyer and reached her car, she found herself feeling slightly comforted by the coolness of the evening air. But as she opened the door and sat in the comfort and safety of her car, and started the ignition, she found herself overwhelmed by familiar feelings of anxiety and fear. It was at this moment that she realised that everything was much more confusing than she imagined, and that she was much less alright than she had believed.


	4. Chapter 4

Joan remained seated, her shaking hands gripping the steering wheel, as she breathed in deeply a couple of times, and found herself relaxing more. The initial shock of the incident had worn off, and the sharpness of the pain had subsided slightly, being replaced by a dull ache. She wiped the tears from her eyes and drew in a deep, shaky breath, before exhaling quickly and turning the key in the ignition. As she pulled out of the parking space and into the road, Joan undid the window slightly and found herself instantly comforted by the cool evening air, and the multitude of familiar sounds coming from the street. She found herself driving on autopilot, her mind racing as she considered the events of the last few minutes. Even when she reflected upon the incident, she was immediately struck by the frightening memory of her kidnapper's large, powerful hands grabbing her harshly from behind, and pulling her towards him. She blinked a few times at this recollection, willing herself not to cry, and determined to compose herself before she got back home. She knew that this memory was nothing but a vague snapshot of her past, the remnants of a night which she wanted to forget. She had spoken to her therapist about the incident, making several appointments in the weeks that followed her ordeal, and had genuinely believed that she was alright. This confused and frightened her, and she found herself battling with her own inner thoughts. Thoughts of the kidnapping, of Sherlock and of her injury all entered her mind, battling each other for her complete and undivided attention. She was feeling very, very overwhelmed.

Joan stopped at some traffic lights, and used it as an opportunity to continue to calm herself. She was shaking slightly less than before, and her breathing was less ragged and pained. But her stomach and chest were still feeling tight, as if clenched with fear, and the dullness of her injury had been replaced with sharp shooting pains, which coursed down her left arm. Joan tried not to focus on this, on any of it. She breathed in deeply, forbidding herself from thinking about the kidnapping, or her injury, or her relationship with Sherlock. But as the light turned green and she drove slowly forwards, making a sharp right into her street, she found it impossible not to think of the consulting detective who had bade her goodnight just a few hours before. It was just before eleven, and she was fairly certain that Sherlock would still be awake.

As she pulled into the a parking space outside the brownstone, she found herself hoping that he was out, or downstairs, or so deeply engaged in his work that he would not notice her reappearance. As she removed the key from the ignition, she found herself suddenly feeling unwilling to leave the car. She felt comforted by the darkness, and the peacefulness of the quiet street. It was only the hot, searing pain which she was experiencing in her left arm that convinced her otherwise. It was too dark for her to see her injury, but she was certain that the bleeding had continued as she had been driving, and she was beginning to feel slightly breathless and light-headed. But she was determined to be as calm and as collected as she could be before entering the brownstone. She needed to be, to reassure not only herself, but Sherlock, should they meet. She inhaled sharply, before tilting the mirror slightly towards her, and staring back at her own reflection. She turned away almost instantly, before opening the door of her car, and easing herself from her seat. As soon as her feet connected with the pavement, she found herself experiencing the same sense of dizziness that she had just moments before, and leaned against her car for a few moments to steady herself. As she did so, she found herself staring up at the brownstone, which seemed to be enshrouded in darkness. None of the lights at the front of the building were on, and there was no sound of music, shouting or experiments. Joan felt relieved at this, pushing herself from the car and locking it with her keys, before slowly making her way up the stone steps.

She opened the door cautiously, standing still in the dark foyer for a few moments, her eyes darting around the rooms. After satisfying herself that Sherlock was not in the immediate vicinity, she quickly made her way up the stairs, leaning on the bannister with her right arm as she did so, in an attempt to steady herself. With each step she took, she felt the pain in her shoulder become less and less bearable, and she found herself inhaling sharply on several occasions, before biting her cheek in an attempt not to cry out in pain. As she reached the top of the stairs she paused once more, briefly surveying the scene in the darkness, and finding that everything seemed to be quiet and still. She immediately turned to the right, and made a beeline for the bathroom, dropping her bag and jacket upon the floor as she entered. She locked the door quickly before turning on the light, and moving towards the mirror to look at her reflection. Her eyes were wide and tearful, and slightly reddened from crying. She looked paler than usual, and wore an expression which conveyed a mixture of sadness and confusion. Her attention was quickly drawn from her reflection to her shoulder, which felt as though it was on fire. There were sharp, searing pains travelling down her arm, and Joan could feel that several pieces of glass were lodged in her shoulder. She inhaled deeply and calmed herself, before opening the medicine cabinet and removing a small medical box and some additional supplies, closing the door slowly behind her.

Joan opened the box and extracted a pair of scissors, some surgical tweezers and a small bottle of disinfectant, which she placed on the sink next to the gauze and bandages which she also collected. Joan shifted slightly on her feet, before staring down at her injured shoulder. The material of her blouse was completely shredded, and her left sleeve was saturated with fresh blood, more blood than she realised. She brushed a few pieces of glass from her shoulder, and plucked a shard or two from the material of her shirt, before using the scissors to cut away at the sleeve completely, pulling the material open so that it tore, revealing her bare arm and shoulder. She hissed in pain at this action, as the material from her blouse brushed her open wound and a piece of glass which was protruding from her shoulder. Despite the nature of her injury, and her previous ordeal regarding her reliving of her kidnapping, Joan felt herself feeling fairly calm and composed whilst tending to her arm. She found herself in familiar territory, with her medical training and instincts overcoming all other feelings and emotions which she was battling to suppress. She had learned the art of compartmentalisation during her residency, and was relieved to find that it had not left her.

Joan placed the scissors on the side of the sink and picked up the tweezers, and used them to attempt to remove the two-inch tall piece of glass from her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she held the tweezers carefully and steadily onto the glass, and tried to extract it with care and precision. As she slowly began to lift the glass using the tweezers, she inhaled sharply, watching as fresh blood began to pour from the wound as the piece of glass began to be dislodged. She hissed in pain and released a shaky breath as she pulled the piece of glass from her arm, placing it on the vacant soap-holder on the sink, before using a discarded piece of material from her damaged blouse to soak up some of the blood. She found herself breathing calmly once more, and was beginning to feel relaxed and at ease. However, her brief period of solace was not to last, and she was drawn from her temporary tranquility by the sound of gentle knocking at the bathroom door.

"Watson?" called Sherlock, before knocking on the door once more. His voice sounded concerned, and there was an unmistakable degree of urgency present in his tone. Joan turned immediately to face the door, holding the bloodied material to her arm, as she parted her lips and attempted to form words. "Watson, are you alright?" called the voice, after some seconds had passed without response.

"Sherlock, I-" Joan began, her voice sounding almost normal, but slightly weary and with a notable edge of fear. "I'm fine, is... do you need something?"

There was no immediate response from Sherlock, but she could hear him shifting slightly on his feet, before taking one step closer towards the door.

"Watson, are you okay?" He asked in a kind and gentle tone, which caused Joan's chest to tighten with fear and apprehension. She knew, at this moment, that she could not hide her injury. He would not be fooled or convinced into believing there was nothing wrong. But she would try. In the time it had taken her to ponder these thoughts, Sherlock had been waiting impatiently on the other side of the door, fear flooding his body and coursing through his veins, and his wide eyes were fixed on the outside of the door, as if he thought that he could glare at it until it opened. He had been reviewing some of the materials relating to the case in his room when he heard the door open downstairs, followed by her walking quickly up the staircase, and heading straight for the bathroom. He had opened his bedroom door and stood on the landing for a few moments, concerned by her strange behaviour, and glancing around to see if anything was amiss. It had not taken him long to spot a small blood trail which began halfway down the stairs and continued onto the landing. As he followed the trail to the door, he had heard Joan inhale sharply before hissing in pain. It was at that moment he began to knock on the door. "Watson, please" he continued, in the same pleasant and gentle tone. "Open the door."

Joan remained perfectly still for a few moments, her mouth slightly agape, and her eyes travelling from the door to her shoulder, then back to the door. Her injury looked worse than it was, and she was confident that she would be able to deal with it be herself. She also did not want to worry Sherlock, who she knew would be deeply unsettled to see her injured. She remembered his face when he saw her for the first time after her kidnapping ordeal, and the look of fear and pain which was etched into his features filled her with an indescribable agony, and she did not wish to inflict the same pain on him again.

"I'm fine, Sherlock" she stated confidently, and she found herself feeling surprised at the sound of her own voice. "I'll be out in a minute, okay? Can you wait?"

"Watson, you are not fine" he stated calmly, yet with a notable degree of care. "There is blood on the landing and you are clearly in pain" he explained tentatively, his voice remaining even. Joan closed her eyes in frustration for a moment, before adjusting the bloodied material on her shoulder, and realising that the bleeding had stopped. "Watson, please open the door."

"It's okay, I..." she began, before finding herself faltering. She stopped mid-way through her sentence, but was unsure of why. She turned to face the door directly, before continuing to speak to Sherlock. "It's alright, Sherlock, I'm okay. Really, I won't be long."

"People who are alright don't tend to leave blood trails in their residences, Watson. Nor do they sound frightened and pained, and attempt to prevent others from helping them." Sherlock was speaking in a gentle yet authoritative manner, and using the kind of tone adopted by a teacher who was consoling a child who was denying a playground injury. Joan considered his words for a few moments, before sighing in defeat. He knew she was injured. Denying it would be pointless, as would refusing to allow him entrance into the bathroom. Not only was this not achieving anything, but it was probably causing Sherlock more worry and agitation than he was actually letting on. She was making it more difficult for the both of them. "Watson, please" he spoke once more, the kindness of his tone making her eyes soften and breathing increase. "Please open the door."

Joan pressed the material carefully to her arm, before taking a few unsteady steps towards the door, and unlocking it. She remained standing on the spot, and found herself just inches from Sherlock's face as he slowly pulled the door open, and took a step closer towards her. His eyes were darting analytically over her body, but it did not take him long to figure out the source of her injury. Joan was standing in front of him, one hand pressing some material to her shoulder, which had recently been bleeding. Her left arm was bare, with torn fabric hanging limply by her side, and trails of blood encrusted upon her skin. Sherlock's eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. Joan watched him with interest, observing how his hands were by his sides and his fists were clenched.

"Watson" he breathed eventually, taking a step towards her and unclenching his hands, placing one on her waist and the other on top of her own hand on her shoulder. "Watson did he-"

"No" she returned immediately, speaking confidently as she stared into his eyes. It was an accident, and she needed to make him realise that. But at the same time, she did not feel ready to reveal the true cause of the incident, the catalyst which led to the events. She was tired and in pain, and wished for nothing more than to tend to her injury and retreat to her room. She was tired of thinking, of talking, of being awake. She needed to sleep. "It was an accident, Sherlock" she stated as calmly and as confidently as she could. "I lost my footing and fell into a glass cabinet by the door. He did not hurt me or push me or... or do anything, okay?" She looked up to his eyes as she spoke, which were wide and dilated, and splitting their attention between her face and her arm. "I am telling you the truth, Sherlock, I-"

"I know" he stated calmly, not breaking her gaze. He could tell when she was lying, and this was not one of those occasions. But something was wrong, and he knew it. He gave her a look of warmth and reassurance, before taking a step closer to her to examine her arm closer. They were still standing in the doorway, and Joan could feel the warmth of his breath upon her neck. As he moved forward, his leg brushed her thigh, and she felt herself breathing in deeply, and her tiredness being temporarily abated. She tilted her head up to face him directly as he continued to speak. "I know you are telling the truth, Watson" he stated confidently, before casting his attention completely towards her arm. "But how did this happen?"

Joan continued to stare at him confidently, but felt her hands go clammy and her heart begin to race with fear once more. She did not want to discuss it, not now, not here. She was tired and she was in pain, and the thought of having to relive her ordeal for the second time that night filled her with unspeakable fear. "It was an accident" she stated with conviction. "I told you".

Despite being certain that she was telling the truth, Sherlock detected the traces of guilt and confusion in her tone, and decided not to press the matter further. Clearly, there was more to her injury than she was revealing, and that she was finding it difficult to discuss. His immediate concern was not the cause, but the effect. She was clearly upset and in pain, and attempting to appear brave and confident in front of him. But the grip she had on her arm, the red-tipped glass on the sink, and the presence of the blood which had been pouring down her left arm all confirmed that she was not okay. And right now she needed medical attention and emotional support, not an interrogation.

"Alright" Sherlock spoke kindly, nodding as he lowered his arm from her hand and placed in on her lower back. "You should sit down, Watson" he instructed gently, as he led her across the room and past the sink, before indicating for her to sit on the toilet. She followed his instructions, easing herself down gently, before looking up at him with a mixture of confusion and gratitude. Sherlock knelt down in front of her, and was examining her with concern.

"Thank you" she stated simply, as she removed the saturated material from her arm, and dropped it into the bin opposite.

"That's quite alright, Watson" he stated in a low tone, his wide eyes not breaking her gaze. For a moment Joan forgot about her pain, and found herself completely lost in his eyes. Her heart beat faster once more and her breathing became deeper and more ragged. But it was not because of the pain. It was because of something quite different. "Will you allow me to tend to your injury?" he asked tentatively, drawing her from her thoughts.

"Sure" she responded, tilting her head up slightly as she spoke, hoping that it would make her appear more confident than she felt. Although, at that moment, she found her proximity to him, and the feelings she was experiencing, to be the ultimate remedy.

Sherlock nodded in response, turning from her and picking up the tweezers, antiseptic, gauze and bandages from the sink, and placing them on a silver soap dish, which he drew to his side. He then knelt in front of her once more, and found himself just inches from her face. They exchanged a mutual look of consent, before he turned to her left arm and began to gently examine the wounds. He placed one hand beneath her arm and the other near the main laceration, and lifted her arm carefully. She inhaled sharply, causing him to pause immediately, turning to face her once more.

"Are you alright?" he asked immediately, his eyes brimming with concern.

"Yeah, sorry, I just... it was a glass cabinet and I think there's... still some glass in the wound."

Sherlock turned from her and looked back towards her injuries, nodding in understanding, before leaning down and picking up the tweezers, and glancing up at her for permission to proceed. She nodded, tilting her head to the side to watch him as he slowly and delicately extracted several small pieces of broken glass from her arm.

"It's strange" she began in a conversational tone, which instantly drew his attention back towards her. "Being on this side of the tweezers." He smiled slightly at this, the reference to all the times she had given him medical aid when he had injured himself. He continued to work on her arm as they engaged in conversation, which filled them both with relief and calmness.

"Well, Watson, I daresay it was certainly your turn to be the recipient."

"Yes, yes it was." She stated, observing him with warmth and gratitude. Sherlock removed about fourteen pieces of broken glass from her arm, before checking her over carefully to ensure that he had not missed any. As he was examining her closely, Joan could feel his warm breath travel reassuringly across her arm, and found herself quiver slightly at the sensation. He moved his head from her arm as she shook slightly, running his fingers gently down the back of her arm, before turning to face her directly.

"Watson, I... will you tell me how this happened to you?" he asked tentatively, watching her carefully for a reaction. She breathed in deeply, before offering him a nervous and apologetic look, and casting her glance from his eyes to her arm. She adjusted herself slightly in her seat, before returning his look with confidence, and continuing to speak.

"I will, but just... not right now, okay?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, and felt relieved that she was willing to discuss it with him at a later stage. Although she was clearly suppressing her sadness and fear, she was notably more calm and relaxed than she had been a few minutes ago, and he was glad of it. He found seeing her in any amount of pain to be almost completely unbearable. He did not know what had happened, or why she did not wish to discuss it, but he was certain that she had been telling the truth about it being an accident. When he first saw her injuries, and considered her covert behaviour, he assumed that Jake had harmed her. But from her demeanour and her words, it was clear that this was not the case. Still, something was wrong, and she was finding it difficult to discuss. As he pondered this for a few moments, he wet some tissue and proceeded to clean the dried blood from her shoulder, and then from her lower arm. The water was cool and his movements were delicate and precise, both of which caused Joan to feel comforted by his touch. Sherlock observed her for a moment, and began to consider ways that he could help her. As he discarded the bloodied tissues and began to dry her arm with a small towel, he thought of a way in which he would be able to reassure her, and make her realise that he was there for her. He would confide in her.

"Do you remember earlier, Watson" he began, drawing her attention to him immediately. As he was speaking, he was continuing to adjust her arm, tilting it gently so that he could dry it completely, and remove any small traces of blood that he missed. "With Mr Rogers, the CEO who was sleeping with the victim?" Joan nodded immediately, her eyes widening with interest as he spoke. "You asked me what my problem was with him, what it was about him that I... disliked."

"Yes." She said simply, in the same kind tone she always used when talking to him during the few occasions in which he had embraced her so completely into his confidence.

"It was not because of his job. Despite being a banker, he had other features which irked me even more so. If that is even possible" he punctuated his sentence with a statement of levity, which earned him a small smile from Joan, whose eyes appeared to be slightly weary, yet fully focused and alert. "It was because of the victim."

Joan's eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, as he slowly moved the towel up her arm, and pressed it lightly to her shoulder. She shuddered slightly due to the small amount of pain she experienced at the contact, but was reassured instantly by Sherlock, who placed a reassuring hand on her other arm, squeezing it tightly, before releasing his hold and continuing his motions with the towel. They were both silent for a few moments, allowing Sherlock's words some time to take effect, before continuing.

"He had been invited in for an interview to discuss the brutal murder to the woman he loved. Instead of coming in and attempting to assist us, he stormed in with a bunch of over-priced attorneys in painfully expensive suits, treated the precinct and the police with contempt, and proceeded to exert his authority over every person in the room." Sherlock paused for a moment, dampening the towel slightly and using it to gently remove some blood from beneath Joan's elbow. As he dried her arm with the soft, warm towel, he continued to speak. "Those attorneys are from a company out of state, I've had the displeasure of working with them before. It would have taken them over an hour to get here, possibly longer considering the mid-morning traffic." Joan nodded in understanding, giving him a warm look which urged him to continue. She believed she knew where this was going. "The woman he claimed to love, a woman he was willing to break up his marriage for, had been brutally slain in his office, and his immediate concern was his reputation." Sherlock stated acidly, dropping the towel on the ground before examining Joan's arm once more. It struck her, at that moment, how incredible it was that he was being so delicate and so gentle with her, whilst his temper at the man who they interviewed earlier was rising. "When you think you lose someone you love, the last thing that should matter, the last thing that does matter, is your reputation" he stated coolly, his voice becoming calm once more. "Otherwise you do a complete disservice to the person you claim to adore."

Joan nodded in understanding, and allowed the silence to sit comfortably between them for a few moments, before addressing his statement.

"I understand" she began gently, her voice kind and warm. Sherlock did not watch her as she spoke, and was focusing instead on folding up the towel and collecting pieces of discarded medical paraphernalia. "You're not like him, you know that, right?" Sherlock paused for a moment, his hands briefly hovering over the towel, before he continued to fold it into a neat square.

"Watson, I-"

"Not one bit" she continued, determined to make him realise it. "When you believed that Irene had been murdered, you did absolutely everything to-"

"I wasn't referring to Irene." He stated simply, resting his hand on top of the towel, which he had folded for the third time. He stared down at the bloodied article for just a moment, before looking up towards Joan and meeting her gaze. "I meant how I was with you."

Joan stared at him in disbelief for a moment, her eyes wide and curious, her lips slightly parted. She did not say anything, knowing that to do so would simply make it more difficult for him. Instead, she sat quite still and silent, waiting for him to continue. Sherlock moved slowly on his heels, lifting himself from his kneeling position and taking the towel and some other items to the other side of the room, before picking up the silver soap tray with the remaining medical items, and kneeling before Joan once more. Their eyes met for a moment, each holding the gaze of the other, before Sherlock turned away slowly, glancing down at the medical supplies he was holding. He unwrapped some gauze and a bandage, before taking a piece of cloth and the antiseptic, and holding it steadily in front of Joan.

"When... when you were taken I" he paused, sighing slightly as he stared down at the items in his hands. "Words cannot describe how... how helpless I felt, how desperate I was to find you. Despite everything I am, everything we do and are capable of doing, for the entire day that you were gone I was tormented by the thought that I would never see you again. That you were in some unknown location going through some terrifying experience, all alone. I wasn't there to protect you and I should have been. You should never have been taken. I should not have allowed it to-"

"Sherlock" she interposed gently, wishing to spare him any more unnecessary self-condemnation. "You helped to find me. Without you, Mycroft would never have made the link. You saved my life."

"I endangered your life."

"No." She said with certainty, in a tone of such absolute conviction that Sherlock almost believed her. "What happened to me was not your fault." Sherlock looked up at her at that moment, watching her with an intensity which she did not recognise. He lowered his head slightly, and poured some of the liquid in the bottle onto a cloth, before moving slightly towards her.

"This will sting, Watson" he said in a low, sad tone. "Are you quite ready?"

"Yes" she whispered breathlessly, as his face rested just inches from her own. Sherlock nodded instantly, and gently placed the antiseptic-covered cloth over her wound. Joan gasped, shifting slightly on her seat as she inhaled sharply, before slowly releasing the breath as she felt the pain subside. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes unable to meet hers. He blamed himself completely for her past experience, and for her current discomfort.

"You're very much like it, you know" she stated after a short while, causing Sherlock to raise his head and look at her with confusion. "Antiseptic" she stated simply, as he passed her a piece of gauze which she placed over her wound. "Causes some slight stinging, some temporary discomfort, but then alleviates pain and protects the person who comes into contact with it from further harm." She explained, her eyes not leaving his. "You didn't condemn me, Sherlock. You protected me." Sherlock watched her with interest as he considered her words, breaking their shared stare to reach for a bandage, which he delicately began to secure to her.

"A very interesting analogy, Watson" he stated in a slightly more uplifted tone. "But not one that I am certain I can fully endorse" he continued, as he slowly eased Joan's arm up, and continued to wrap the bandage across her, his fingers dancing lightly across her skin. Joan watched him with interest as he gently wrapped the bandage across her shoulder and upper arm, which were feeling much cleaner and less painful.

"I endorse it" she stated simply, which caused him to pause momentarily in his tentative care of her, before continuing without a word. "I believe it, Sherlock. And I..." she paused, thinking over her next move very carefully before deciding to run with it, and preparing herself to speak. "I can't even begin to tell you how much comfort it gives me. Knowing that you... that you're here." She stated simply, looking from his face to her arm, placing her fingers on the bandage to adjust it slightly, as he continued to work around her. "You asked me how I hurt myself" she stated in a low tone, which drew his attention instantly to her face. He secured the bandage, finishing his work, and then placed the medical items back on the sink, before moving in front of her, kneeling by her as she continued to speak.

"Yes, Watson" he asked kindly, his expression one of compassion and encouragement. "Are you ready to discuss it?"

She nodded briefly, before moving her left arm slightly, and holding it to her body, before continuing to speak. "I... I was leaving the apartment. Jake followed me out, and he put his hands gently on my shoulders. He was behind me at the time and I didn't see or hear him coming, and I-" she broke off, her eyes becoming glassy. She could feel her emotions rise as she spoke, and she struggled to acquire the necessary level of detachment from her words to allow herself to continue. "He did not hurt me, he wasn't being forceful. But feeling someone's hands on me, from behind, it just... I had a flashback. A memory, of... of that night. When I was taken." She stated simply, swallowing as she lowered her head slightly, her gaze drifting to the ground. Sherlock waited for a few moments, before shifting slightly towards her, and placing one hand on her leg and the other on her right cheek, causing her to turn immediately towards him. Their eyes met for a moment, and each of them felt themselves completed absorbed in the eyes of the other.

"It's alright, Watson" he said kindly, his fingers gently caressing her cheek, as his other hand gripped her own, applying gentle and reassuring pressure. "You are quite alright" he continued, as Joan felt herself relaxing slightly. His presence and his touch were the ultimate comfort, and she wished that she could make him realise this. "It is perfectly understandable that you experienced that, but as frightening as it was, and as much as it tormented you, it was not real. It was nothing ore than the shell of a former experience. Something which you got through, that you survived."

"Something that you helped me to survive, Sherlock" she stated in return, watching him with a stare of certainty and conviction. "You helped to find me then, and you are helping me to find myself now." Sherlock watched her for a moment, his eyes meeting her warm stare, and he lowered his head. "You must understand that, Sherlock" Joan stated, placing her own hand on top of the one that was resting on her cheek, which drew his face immediately up to hers. Their eyes met instantly, and they could both feel their hearts race, and their breathing become heavy once more. Now that Joan's injuries were tended to, and they had each confided in each other, the tension and fear had left them both, and they found themselves faced with familiar feelings of longing and desire.

"Must I, Watson?" he asked breathlessly, leaning closer to her, so that their foreheads were touching.

"Yes, Sherlock" she stated, in a low and equally breathless tone, as she moved closer towards him. "Yes."

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, as she felt his head tilt slightly to the side, and he leaned towards her ear. They removed their clasped hands from each other, and Sherlock ran his now free hand down her back, allowing it to rest at her waist, as Joan placed her hand upon Sherlock's broad, muscular shoulder, running it across his chest and allowing it to rest on his heart.

"And is there-" he began, as she opened her eyes wide and tilted her head slightly, her nose brushing his cheek she drew herself closer to him, their lips practically touching. "Is there anything else you want me to understand?" He breathed against the side of her mouth, as he too leaned slightly towards her. Joan felt warm, very flushed, and was certain that she could hear the sound of her heart beating. Her breathing became heavy, and her eyes were closing slowly, as she leant in towards him. As their lips met, she felt Sherlock's hand move from her cheek towards the back of her head, guiding her forward as she leaned into him, pressing her lips against his, and kissing him gently. The effect this had on both of them was quite remarkable, and was as complex and as beautiful as their relationship. They each closed their eyes, guiding the other towards their lips, pulling each other desperately into the kiss. They kissed tentatively for a few moments, before the emotions and chemistry of the past few days consumed them completely, and the kiss turned passionate. Joan raised her injured arm and placed her hand upon Sherlock's cheek, tilting her head slightly as she continued to kiss him breathlessly, and running her fingers through his hair as he pulled her slightly forwards. He pushed himself up on his knees, leaning towards her, as he pulled her close to his chest as they continued to kiss passionately. Joan reacted immediately, moving her legs further apart and wrapping them around him, pulling him closer, and holding him tightly against her. Sherlock welcomed this movement, running his hand from her neck to her lower back, and holding him tightly against him. And so they remained, for several minutes, their bodies entwined as they kissed passionately, allowing themselves the pleasure and the freedom which they had been denying themselves.

They continued to kiss, to caress and to hold each other for several minutes, with neither of them conscious of the passing of time, or anything else that was going on around them. After a few minutes, a tired and weary Joan regretfully tilted her head away from Sherlock's lips, resting her forehead against his shoulder, and breathing heavily against his neck. Sherlock mourned the loss of her lips immediately, and as he felt her legs go limp and fall from his side, he placed one arm around her waist and the other onto the back of her neck, holding her safely in place. He held her for a few moments, breathing just as heavily against her cheek, before running his hand along her back. He opened his eyes slowly, resting his head on top of her own, and gazing down at her with adoration. As he looked down, he became aware of the fact that their passion had led to the wound on Joan's shoulder to become aggravated.

"Watson" he breathed, his lips brushing gently against her forehead as he attempted to tilt her head up to face him. She acted immediately, her wide eyes watching him with anticipation. "Watson you... you're bleeding." She looked at him for a moment, slightly confused and partially dazed, before casting her glance towards her shoulder, and finding that a small amount of blood had begun to seep through the bandage. She laughed slightly, in a breathless manner, before looking back up at him with wide eyes, which he met. Before either could respond, their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing. Sherlock sighed in frustration, glancing down at his pocket as he withdrew the offending article, before glancing back towards Joan.

"It's fine" she stated, her voice a breathless-imitation of her own. "Answer it, it could be important." Sherlock nodded at her in agreement, glancing down at the caller ID, before answering the call. As he spoke on the phone, Joan began to undo the bandage which Sherlock had so carefully fixed to her just minutes before, and began to replace it with another. She struggled to manage it alone, and was grateful to feel his hands next to her own, assisting her with it, after he ended his conversation.

"Is everything alright?" She asked, her voice normal and conversational. He looked up at her slowly, meeting her gaze with a mixture of weariness and concern.

"That was Captain Gregson" he stated, securing the bandage to her, his eyes not leaving hers. "Another woman has been murdered." Sherlock's words lingered in the air for several moments, their impact removing any of the remaining traces of passion from the intentions or voices of the consulting detectives.

Joan nodded in understanding, flexing her arm slightly, as she shifted on the seat. Sherlock moved back slightly, holding her hands and gently easing her into a standing position, before looking down at her with concern as she stood. She seemed to be feeling very unsteady on her feet which, she knew, had nothing to do with her injuries. Joan remained still for a moment, standing just inches from Sherlock, whose hands lingered by her sides, as if frightened she would fall. After a few moments of staring at each other with a mixture of curiosity and unspoken desire, Joan broke the silence, watching him with warm and reassuring eyes as she spoke.

"We should go."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stared at Joan for a moment, running his eyes analytically across her face, shoulder and the rest of her body, before preparing himself for what he felt would be a small argument.

"Are you quite sure, Watson? You've been-"

"I'm fine" she stated, exhaling audibly. "My shoulder's bandaged and it's no longer bleeding. As long as you don't plan on practising any of your covert-attacks on me to test my reflexes, I think we'll be safe."

Sherlock nodded slightly at this, hiding his mild amusement as he offered her a look of concern. "It's not just your shoulder that I am concerned about." There was silence in the room for a few moments whilst she stood perfectly still, staring up at him as she processed his words.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I want to work on this case. I need to." She spoke gently, a small, reassuring smile lighting up her face. "Keeping busy and getting back into my routine is the best way to... to make sure that I stop-"

"You don't need to stop anything, Watson" he spoke gently, taking a step closer to her. "You just need to give yourself some time."

"And I will. But right now, my time is best spent helping you and the police to figure out what is going on. It will help the case, and it will help me. Okay?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment, running over her previous arguments, which he judged to be sound. He nodded regretfully, before meeting her eyes once more, before allowing his glance to fall to her shoulder, then back to her face.

"If you need a break, if you want to leave, you must tell me. Yes?"

"Yes." She stated simply, although neither of them believed her. Sherlock knew that this line of conversation was going nowhere, and he realised that Joan would not allow herself to spend time away from the case in order to recover. This reminded him very much of how she was the day after her kidnapping ordeal, when she insisted on accompanying him to the morgue, despite his wishes for her to remain in the brownstone. He knew from this experience that further attempts to make her stay, or to attempt to urge her to remove herself from the case temporarily, would not be met with agreement. He reasoned that, if she did accompany him on the case, at least he would be with her, and be able to monitor her behaviour and her current medical and emotional condition. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"I just need to change, okay?" she spoke softly, looking up at him with warm eyes. "I'll meet you in the foyer. I won't be a minute." Sherlock nodded, stepping aside and opening the door for her as she passed him. As she reached the doorway, she turned around instantly, and found herself facing him once more, their bodies almost touching. "Sherlock I-" she faltered, her words deserting her as she gazed into his wide, inquisitive eyes, which were brimming with concern. After a few moments of silence, she stepped closer to him, the previous tension and emotions rising within them both once more, as she inhaled deeply and began to speak. "I'm so glad we... talked" she stated simply, leaning away from him once more, and turning to leave the room. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, his attention split between her movements and the tingling sensation and warmness he was experiencing. He nodded imperceptibly, before walking down the stairs and into the living area, offering a few words to Angus whilst he waited for Joan.

As soon as Joan entered her bedroom, she walked straight to her bed and sat on the end, leaning forwards and placing her head in her hands. This night, like the one before it, felt like a strange dream. One moment she had been nursing an injury in the bathroom, and attempting to conceal the fact from Sherlock, and then minutes later they had been kissing passionately and needfully for what felt like an eternity. She felt herself feeling warm and shaky at the memory, and her fingers subconsciously drifted towards her lips at the remembrance of Sherlock's kiss. He was so passionate and yet so gentle, so delicate and yet so full of desire. Just as she had been. Despite the pleasantness of the memory, she still found herself questioning how they had come to be in that situation. She knew that she had been considering her feelings for him for a while now, and the night at the charity gala had acted as a catalyst, throwing them into an unknown situation which required physical contact which bordered on intimacy, which clearly affected how they each saw the other. Or perhaps it didn't. Perhaps it simply helped to remove the boundaries that each had built around themselves, and created an atmosphere in which they were able to surrender themselves so completely to each other. Perhaps.

She remained seated on the bed for a few moments, running through the events in her head, before the coldness of her exposed arm reminded her of the fact that she needed to get dressed and head to the crime scene. Regretfully, she stood from the bed and passed the memories aside for a moment, selecting a new shirt from her wardrobe and putting it on slowly and with great care. Her arm was still aching slightly, and she was feeling slightly light-headed. She wasn't sure whether this was due to the adrenaline which was currently coursing through her veins due to her recent romantic activity with Sherlock, or if it was injury-related. She pondered this as she picked up her bag from her bed and walked slowly over to the door. As she passed from her room onto the landing, she cast a cautious glance back at the bathroom, and was instantly struck by a small snapshot of recent memory. She remembered parting her legs slightly and wrapping them around Sherlock's waist, and pulling him closer to her as they kissed. She lowered her head slightly at this memory, partly out of embarrassment, but mostly due to her surprise at how strongly she had reacted to what began as a simple kiss. But as she descended the steps slowly, she corrected herself. _Nothing was simple with Sherlock. Certainly not a kiss_. Still, she was puzzled as to why she had reacted the way she had, why she had been so forward. Of all the confusion and the uncertainty of her thoughts in relation to their encounter, one thing pervaded them, overtaking them completely: her memory of how natural their actions seemed, and how right they felt.

"Ready, Watson?" called a voice from the bottom of the stairs, causing Joan to raise her head slightly to meet his gaze. Sherlock was standing near the coat-rack, dressed in his dark coat, scarf and gloves, and tapping the fingers of his left hand nervously upon his thigh as he watched her descend.

"Yeah, yeah I'm ready" she answered tiredly. Sherlock watched her for a moment, observing her with concern. She was clearly exhausted, and he wished that she would consent to remain in the brownstone. He knew this would not happen, though, and decided that pressing the issue would achieve absolutely nothing, apart from wasting the small reserves of energy which she did have, directing her attention and her power at arguing with him instead of being able to function. So as Joan reached the bottom step, Sherlock reached for her coat and scarf, pulling them from the coat rack gently, and slowly approaching her. She stood still at the bottom step for a moment, gazing up at him as he held out her coat for her, before turning on the spot and sliding her arms into it. She inhaled sharply as her left shoulder brushed part of the material of the coat, which Sherlock reacted to immediately, raising the material of the coat slightly before gently lowering it. As she did up the zip and fastened the belt, he unravelled her scarf for her. It was the warm, soft cream one which she bought recently, and seemed to pair with this particular coat. Instead of handing it to her, Sherlock took a step closer to her, and draped it over the back of her neck and over her shoulders. Joan inhaled deeply at the contact, at having him so close to her, and ministering to her so carefully. She looked up at him with warm and curious eyes as he slowly removed her hair from the back of the scarf, and watched as it fell elegantly over her shoulders. His fingers brushed her cheeks gently as he did so, and she felt her heart beginning to race. They stared at each other for a moment, their eyes wide and their pupil's dilated, with Sherlock's hands resting on the bottom sections of her scarf.

"We should-" Joan began breathlessly.

"Go. Yes, we should." Sherlock replied, his wide eyes fixed on her own. They stared at each other for just a moment before, before Sherlock turned quickly on the spot, walking towards the front door and holding it open for Joan, as they passed from the brownstone and began to walk towards a waiting taxi.

The ride to the crime scene was short and filled with a notable yet not unpleasant silence, with both consulting detectives sitting casually in the back and considering the events of the pass day or so. Remarkably, their thoughts followed the same lines: they began by going over the events in their head, before considering what led to said events, and then trying to understand why the events had occurred. It was at this last point that they both faltered, their eyes growing large and wild as they struggled to comprehend why they were feeling and acting in a manner which was so completely departed from the established norms of their pre-existing relationship. Before they were able to spend any more time on this thought, the taxi pulled up outside a large building, and the detectives left the car and walked towards the crime scene: a car park on the ground floor.

Despite it being just past midnight, the ground floor car park was filled with bright artificial lights, the sound of a camera clicking, and the presence of many busy police officers. The car park was large and enclosed by dark-brick walls, with stone pillars separating it into quadrants. The quadrant to the far left of the area was cordoned off using police tape, which Sherlock deftly moved to above his head to allow Joan to pass through, and then himself. As they did so, the familiar figures of Gregson and Bell turned to greet them, with the former dictating something to the latter, who was scribbling enthusiastically in his black leather notebook.

"Thanks again, guys. Appreciate it" began Gregson, his hands in the depths of his pockets. "We got the call literally a half hour ago, and contacted you guys immediately." Joan nodded briefly, her eyes glancing analytically across the scene. Directly in front of her was a small dark-blue sports car, with the driver's side door open and the lights on. On the ground beside the door lay the body of a well-dressed businesswoman, whose left arm was draped across her abdomen, which was the source of an incredible amount of blood, which had pooled from her body and beneath the car. From where Joan was standing she was unable to see the victim's face completely, but she saw enough to notice that she bore a striking resemblance to the victim they saw earlier in the day. As Joan tilted her head to get a closer view of the woman, whose body was obscured by two police officers and a medical examiner, Gregson passed her an evidence bag containing the victim's ID.

"Alexis Mathers, aged thirty-two. She was a partner at the law firm Hadley and Rae, whose officers are on the eighth floor of this building" Gregson began, as Joan observed the ID before passing it to Sherlock. The woman in the picture was very pretty, with the same delicate features and youthful skin as the first victim. She was dressed in a similarly expensive bespoke suit, and appeared to be in the same profession as the first woman. It was unnerving.

"Miss Mathers' body was found by her boyfriend, a Mr Kieran Matthews, at about eleven-twenty. He came here to find her as she had not returned home by ten as she stated she would, and was not answering her cell phone."

Joan nodded, her eyes leaving the scene in front of her and watching Gregson with confusion. "Ten? Why would she be staying so late?"

"She told her boyfriend that it was because she was looking over some CVs and other files in preparation for some interviews she would be sitting in on the next day, for the position of an internship. She assured Matthews that she would be home by ten, and he says she's as punctual and reliable a person as you can imagine. Her lateness was extremely unusual, as was the fact that she wasn't answering her cell. So he drove over, parked up, and found this."

Joan considered his words for a moment, her eyes leaving his face and drifting back over to the scene of the crime. She couldn't even begin to imagine what that poor man must have been going through, coming into his girlfriend's place of work and finding her like this.

"How is he?" she asked tentatively, fixing her eyes on Gregson once more.

"In shock. Poor guy was unable to talk at first, and just stared at... at this" Gregson began, tilting his head back towards Alexis's body. "He had to be escorted out by Bell and another officer, who called his sister. She came and picked him up, and took him back to her place. We'll interview him in the morning, it can wait."

"Yes, Captain" began Sherlock, pulling out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. "The man has been through quite enough already." With that, Sherlock walked slowly across to the body of the woman, and was followed by Joan, who accepted a pair of gloves from Detective Bell and pulled them on slowly, before crouching down beside the woman's body. She was instantly struck by the feeling of familiarity, realising just how similar this woman's death was to the victim she examined earlier in the day. Joan ran her well-trained eyes over the woman for a few moments, before glancing around the scene astutely, and staring once more at the young woman's face. She was pale and her eyes were wide and slightly red, and contained the same expression as the victim she saw earlier in the day. It was an expression she recognised but could not quite place.

"Anything, Watson?" asked Sherlock after some moments.

"Yes" she began, pushing her hands on her knees as she rose to her feet. As she did so, she forgot about her shoulder injury until she was half-raised, and only just prevented herself from stumbling forward. Sherlock took an immediate step forward to prepare to assist her, which he found to be unnecessary. Gregson watched Joan for a moment after she stood, and was about to pose a question, before she continued to speak. "The victim was stabbed three times in the stomach, the same place and same pattern as the woman this morning. And from the size and shape of the wounds, I'd say you're looking for the same weapon. She also has some bruising to her left ankle, a grazed right knee, and some defensive marks on her wrists. Same victim type, same MO" she stated authoritatively, before turning to face Gregson directly and asking him a question. "Are you guys thinking this is the same person as this morning?"

"Sure looks like it" Gregson replied immediately, nodding his head towards the body. "If so, our guy acts fast. He is methodical, precise, and fairly controlled. And the fact that he struck twice in the same day is... it's not something you see every day."

"Quite so, Captain" stated Sherlock simply, turning to face him. "The fact that our victims could be sisters, and had similar occupations, is also something we must consider. Whoever our killer is, they certainly have a type."

"What are you saying?" Gregson returned, caution and concern clear in his voice.

"I'm saying what we're all thinking, Captain" Sherlock said simply, removing his gloves as he did so. "I'd say we're looking for a serial killer."

"It's too early to confirm that" Gregson responded immediately.

"Okay, fine. When you find the third well-dressed businesswoman lying with penetrating abdominal wounds, then I will re-state my point." Sherlock returned, his voice heavy with a mixture of sarcasm and frustration. "I know it is too early to formally state that we have a serial killer, but based on this pattern, I'd say it was a virtual certainty. We know his type and we know his MO. And those are what we need to focus on."

"I agree" Gregson stated, tilting his head to the side slightly. "Our guy preys on attractive businesswomen in their mid-thirties, who are workaholics and are working late."

"Is there anything else that connects the victims?" asked Watson, turning from Gregson to Bell.

"Not that we can find so far" Bell stated simply. "They both live in different parts of the city, have no known business connections, no friends in common. The boyfriend also doesn't recognise the name of our first woman." Joan nodded, before narrowing her eyes in frustration.

"So how does he find these women?" she asked. "There must be a connection somewhere. There's something that we're missing."

"You're right, Watson" Sherlock stated, glancing towards her. "And establishing that connection is the fastest and most effective way of stopping this person."

"But what is there that connects Melissa van Vale with Alexis Mathers?" Joan asked. "Their physical features, age and line of work are consistent, but that can't be it. I mean, it might be why they were killed, but it doesn't fully explain how he found them. There must be something."

"There will be, Watson" Sherlock stated simply. "And we will find it." She nodded, before moving aside slightly as the medical examiner passed her with a couple of assistants, who were carrying a black body bag over to the car. Joan watched them with a sad, meditative expression as they slowly zipped up the bag, and lifted her onto a gurney. She turned back at this point to face the detectives, who had been busily engaged in conversation with Sherlock.

"So, from the scene, I believe we are able to deduce some of what transpired here this evening" Sherlock stated, turning back towards the scene and indicating enthusiastically as he spoke. "The victim came down from her office and approached her vehicle, unlocking it and placing her briefcase and bag in the front passenger seat. She opened the driver's side door, and was at least partially seated, before she was pulled out by the killer, held against the car, and stabbed three times."

"Whoa, whoa whoa" began Gregson, holding up a hand as he spoke. "How can you possible know that?"

Sherlock sighed in frustration, and Joan gave him a brief remonstrative glance, which urged him to speak appropriately and less acidly than before. He accepted.

"Miss Mathers' car key is in the ignition, and the back lights are on. With this particular car model, the lights are only able to be turned on once the keys are in the ignition. Miss Mathers must have been seated in order to reach across to the right of the steering wheel and place the key in the ignition, and turn on her lights. As to her being pulled from the vehicle and not leaving it voluntarily, the open door was the first sign. If she left to greet someone, she probably would have closed the door behind her. It's natural, instinctive, most of us would" he continued, pressing his hands to his chest as he spoke, then allowing them to fall by his side. "Also, there is slight discolouration to her left ankle, which appears to be slightly swollen." With this, he glanced towards Watson, who was nodding earnestly.

"An injury which could have been sustained if her foot was jammed against the side of her car as she was dragged from it." She stated, nodding in understanding. "The blood pattern would be consistent with that theory. There's no spatter or spray, or blood running vertically down her clothes, which indicates she was lying down when she was stabbed."

"Quite so" Sherlock stated approvingly.

"Right" Gregson stated, his eyes clearing. "Okay, well, we've got just as much as we can from the scene. Do you guys wanna head back to the precinct with us?"

"Sure" Joan responded immediately, aware of the fact that Sherlock would almost certainly use the Captain's question as an opportunity to 'take some work home' with them and urge her to relax. "We'd be glad to."

"Right" he continued, fixing his glance on the curious expression which had begun to form on Sherlock's face. "You guys can ride with me."

Sherlock and Joan spent the next five hours at the precinct, going over the medical reports, witness testimony and all other evidence available in relation to both victims. The team were looking to find connections in the lives of the two women, are immediately arranged for their personal possessions to be brought to the precinct. After trawling through evidence and discussing possible links which often proved to be fruitless, the team agreed to work separately and reconvene in the early afternoon. Gregson reasoned that there would be little else they could do before the ME's reports were in, and the evidence at the most recent scene had been analysed by the lab techs. Sherlock was glad of this suggestion, which oddly enough was not his own. He realised that Gregson had sensed Joan's tiredness, and that he knew something was not quite right, but he did not ask about it directly. Instead, he surveyed her covertly on a few occasions, watching her as she moved across the room, and trying to figure out if she was hurt at all. His efforts were to no avail, as Joan hid her injury from the detectives very well. She was almost foiled once, as she reached up to pin a photograph of the second victim to the noticeboard, but managed to conceal her injury still. She did not want them to know because she knew it would require her answering a series of questions, facing their genuine concerns, and attempting to convince yet more individuals who knew her well that she was fine. She meant what she said to Sherlock earlier, about needing to work, and she would not do or say anything that would endanger her chances of continuing to do so. So it was with the greatest relief to Sherlock that the Captain suggested private consultation with the files.

"Here" Gregson stated simply, handing Sherlock a stack of files. "You guys take 'em home and put 'em up or tear 'em down, whatever it is you do." He waved his hand emphatically, causing Joan to smile briefly, before pulling some of the files from the stack and helping Sherlock to carry them, much to his consternation. "We'll regroup at, what, two o'clock? Go home, eat, rest, review, and then come back. Any issues, any major breakthroughs, and we call each other, alright?"

"Yes" replied Sherlock.

"Of course, Captain." Echoed Joan.

"Good." He responded, his eyes moving over Joan's arms as she held the files close to her chest. He noticed that her left shoulder was tensed, and raised a little higher than the other, and correctly deduced that this was the location of her injury. Although what had happened, and why she hadn't mentioned it, confused him greatly. Sherlock would know, of course. That guy knew everything.

"We'll see you soon, Captain" Joan stated, as she noticed him watching her with concern. "See you at two."

"Yeah, yeah. See you guys then."

Sherlock and Joan left the precinct immediately, each laden with files, and stepped out into the dimly lit early-morning street of NYC, with the scent of freshly ground coffee and pastries filling the air. Sherlock hailed a cab, holding the door open for Joan, as she considered this familiar scent. It was from the coffee shop just across the street. She sat in the taxi for a moment, feeling hazy and light-headed, as she pressed her seatbelt into place and leaned back against the seat. Joan considered the night with Jacob, her injury, and what followed between herself and Sherlock. She couldn't quite believe it was real, but each time she considered the events as being too odd and unexpected to be reality, she was instantly reminded of the burningly intense feeling of need and desire which she experienced when she was with him, and which they had both found themselves victim to just a few hours before. Nothing that incredible, that intense and that all-consuming could be anything other that reality. She was lost in her thoughts for so long that she had to be prompted by Sherlock when the taxi pulled up outside the brownstone, and she had continued to remain quite still.

"Watson, is everything alright?" he asked in a low and concerned tone.

"The first victim was sleeping with her boss, and the second had a boyfriend" she stated simply as she unclasped her seatbelt and got out of the cab, which Sherlock did too. "Perhaps the connection is with them?"

Sherlock paid the driver and walked from the road and onto the pavement, joining Joan as they walked up the steps and towards the brownstone. "In what sense, Watson?"

"What if-" Joan sighed, staring upwards slightly as she spoke, which she often did when she was playing out a plausible hypothesis. "What if the boyfriends are the connection? What if the women were seeing other people, or if the men were? Perhaps Rogers was also romantically involved with Alexis, and seeking to eliminate all of his... his close female friends."

"What would make you think that, Watson?" Sherlock asked, slightly perplexedly, as he opened the door and moved aside to allow her to enter. "There is no evidence to support your theory."

"The attacks were personal" she returned immediately, her voice becoming confident and animated. "Three stab wounds to the stomach, the victim facing the attacker. There is such a strong, physical nature to these attacks I find it hard to believe that there is no-" she paused for a moment, her hands lingering over her scarf as she prepared herself to remove it, "romantic connection".

Sherlock watched her for a moment, his wide-eyed stare observing her with interest, before nodding slowly. "Alright, Watson. You explore that avenue of thought, I will look into the personal and professional lives of our victims. I suggest we then swap information, and consider each other's data from our own angle, which should create the broadest of analyses. Agreed?"

"Agreed." She stated simply, the tiredness returning to her voice. She stifled a yawn as she removed her coat, which Sherlock took from her instantly, hanging it up for her. He did not wish for her to aggravate her injury again.

"Take a seat, Watson" he stated kindly, indicating the front living area. "I'll make us some tea." She nodded obediently, too tired to argue or resist, and walked slowly into the front room, leaning gratefully into the comfort of the red couch. She glanced at her watch for a moment and, noting that it was just after half-past five, closed her eyes briefly, and enjoyed the sensation of the warm morning sunlight which danced upon her face.

By the time Sherlock brought the fresh tea to Joan, he found her lying across the couch, her entire body quite still. He watched her for a few moments, and found himself, for one of the first times that he could remember, unwilling to rouse her from her rest. Joan was lying on her right side, and her legs were bent slightly, her feet tipping over the edge of the couch. Sherlock put the tea tray onto a small table, before reaching over her and picking up a thick woollen blanket, and draping it carefully across her sleeping figure. She seemed so content right now, so completely free of fear and pain, and he was glad of it. "Sweet dreams, Watson" he mumbled, before leaving her side and taking up his familiar seat in the armchair, sipping his hot tea as he looked over some of the case files.

To her amazement, Joan found herself waking up in the middle of a dimly lit room with a gently roaring fire. She felt warm and relaxed, and almost completely content as she woke, and clung gratefully to the blanket which provided her with comfort. She glanced furtively around the room, noting Sherlock's absence, and trying to figure out why she was in such darkness. She pushed herself slowly up from the couch, allowing the blanket to fall from her to the ground, as she glanced over towards the window. Sherlock had closed the curtains and lit several small lights around the room, banishing the bright light in favour of the dim, and shrouding the room in a comforting glow. Joan moved her legs to the edge of the couch and planting her feet on the floor, but further movement was prevented by her recognition of a familiar scent: the chicken soup her mother used to make her, and that she had often made for Sherlock. She cast her gaze immediately towards the kitchen, and was not surprised when the familiar figure of her house-mate approached her, carrying a tray containing delicious bowls of freshly-made soup, and what appeared to be crusty white rolls. As he walked into the room and observed her in her semi-upright position, he nodded at her politely.

"Watson, I thought I heard you wake" he stated pleasantly, before dragging one of the small ornate coffee tables to her side, and placing a bowl of soup and some fresh white bread onto it. To Joan's surprise, the bread appeared to be home-made, and looked absolutely incredible. She looked up towards Sherlock, her eyes weary yet alert.

"Did you make this, Sherlock?" she asked, nodding towards the food. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, his eyes not blinking, before nodding and shrugging his shoulders dismissively.

"I was hungry."

"Yeah, but-" she began, staring down hungrily at the deliciously-scented food in front of her. "Usually when you're hungry you have cereal or spaghetti, not home-made soup and bread" she stated, eyeing him inquisitively. "This must have taken you hours to prepare and bake, how long was I-"

"Six hours, Watson. It is coming up to midday."

Joan stared at him in disbelief for a moment, before glancing around the room, and then fixing her glance firmly upon Sherlock. "No, I... it can't be, that's... why is it so dark in here?"

"Because I closed the curtains and dimmed the lights" Sherlock responded immediately, in the same simple tone which he had used just moments before to answer her first question. She was watching him with an odd expression on her face, but her weariness and the return of the pain in her shoulder prevented her from speaking at that moment. Sherlock decided to spare her the thought, and himself the interrogation, by answering her next three questions for her. "You were tired, Watson. Exhausted. I dimmed the lights to allow you to rest for as long as you needed, and I used the time I had free after completing our agreed tasks to make some food. I was bored."

"Baking isn't what you do when you're bored, Sherlock" Joan responded eventually, as Sherlock pushed the table closed to her and placed a hot mug of tea besides her bowl. She reached forward instantly, clasping the tea in her hands, before sipping from it with caution. Her eyes closed immediately as she recognised the familiar and comforting scent of the food which she associated with well-being and revitalisation. She opened her eyes at that moment, to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair, the soup-spoon in mid-air between the bowl and his mouth.

"Sherlock" she began slowly, in a cautious tone which caught his attention immediately. She knew that he cared for her deeply, and would always attempt to alleviate any pain or distress she was feeling, in his own way. But this was different, this was new. She was considering how much their relationship was changing, and yet how little either of them understood of it. "What is this?"

"Lunch, Watson" he responded, raising the spoon to his lips as he did so, before replacing it in the bowl and beginning to stir.

"That's not what I meant." She returned immediately, watching him with concern.

"I know."

There was silence in the room for a few moments, and the detectives found themselves surrounded by nothing but the pleasant smell of their food, and the comfort which the presence of each gave to the other. Eventually, however, Sherlock began to speak.

"After the events of the past couple of days, I thought that you would appreciate a lunch engagement that was free from fear, injury and corpses" he stated in his usual simple yet animated fashion, before gesturing to the food with his spoon. "So..."

Joan continued to watch him with curiosity for a short period of time, before glancing down at her food and then back to his face. He was stirring his soup and staring at it intently, whilst patiently waiting for Joan to talk.

"Fear, injury and corpses" she repeated eventually, before raising the spoon to her lips. "Do you think that is really something that we can avoid?" she asked tentatively. Sherlock's head rose immediately, and he met her gaze, before placing his spoon back into the bowl and moving it to one side. They both knew that she was referring to more than the lunch.

"In our line of work, Watson, it is difficult to avoid any of those three things" he stated simply and yet with conviction, his hands clasped together on his lap. "But this isn't work, is it?"

"No" she conceded, glancing down at her own bowl before placing the spoon into it, and turning to face Sherlock. "But what we do, how we... how this works is... it involves a high level of fear and injury and corpses" she began, pausing at the realisation of how odd her statement was. "can something that is so established, is so fixed, really be changed?"

"Everything has the capacity to change, Watson. Every arrangement, every person, every relationship. Nothing is fixed, nothing is certain and nothing can be so firmly established that is remains unchangeable" he stated simply, his eyes fixing themselves on the floor for a moment, before moving back to her own. "The course of that change, and the route that it takes, depends on the variables involved."

"And would both variables need to change to enable this to work, Sherlock?"

"I believe they already have" he returned immediately, before leaning back towards the table, and continuing to stir his soup as Joan watched him with interest, her heart beating slightly faster as she picked up her tea and drew it to her lips, before turning towards him to speak.

"I think you could be right."

Sherlock's head snapped up immediately, and he watched her were interest for a few moments, before drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair.

"That is wonderful news, Watson" he stated in his usual tone. "And quite unexpected."


	6. Chapter 6

* A/N: Hey everyone, thank you for bearing with the story, I hope it is okay so far. I have the entire plot and sub-plots planned, but I was just wondering whether you would like me to continue with this? It's very different from what I have written previously, and I am not too sure how to feel about it. If it isn't okay, I can always conclude it in a few chapters. Thanks, HQ21.

The next couple of days following their remarkably candid conversation regarding the development of their relationship were filled with investigation and analysis, with no further reference being made to the romantic elements of their partnership. Sherlock and Joan spent the majority of the days (and nights) either at the precinct with Gregson or at the brownstone with each other, surrounded by files, reports, pictures and CCTV videotapes, all of which proved to be frustratingly fruitless. In the three days following the discovery of the second victim, all that the team were able to ascertain was that there was no clear link between the victims, despite their physical appearance and profession. They did not have any mutual friends, attend the same functions, or use the same banks. There was absolutely nothing to suggest that they knew of each other, let alone had any form of communication with one another. On the second day, Joan suggested that they look into dating websites, as the person who killed them may have found them online, which could explain how two women of similar appearance and vocation could be linked without ever having met. This theory, although excellent, was disproved following an intense analysis of their computers and smart phones, none of which provided them with any useful information.

Frustrated at their lack of progress, and uncertain of how to proceed in both their personal and professional lives, Sherlock designed an elaborate surprise for Joan, which he hoped she would enjoy. Despite the fact that neither of them had spoken about the changes occurring in their relationship, it had been on both of their minds. Sometimes they would cast furtive glances at one another, or their fingertips would touch when passing files, filling each with an almost insatiable urge to forget the case for just a short while, and lose themselves once more. But the fact that the killer was striking with such frequency and such precision meant that Sherlock and Joan were forced to push their emotions to one side, and focus completely on the matter at hand. They both wanted to ensure that the guilty party was caught before any more women were killed. And so on the fourth day, a time when the folders had been analysed for the hundredth time, the ME and toxicology reports scrutinised, and the witness statements cross-references and linguistically analysed, Sherlock knew that it was time for himself and Joan to take a break. Not just for themselves, but for the case. Staring at the files for so long was making no difference: they needed to rest, relax, and do something which took their minds as far from the current case as possible, before approaching it once they were sufficiently rested and rejuvenated.

At six o'clock on the evening of the fourth night, Sherlock walked into the living area to find Joan comparing the personal items of the victims. She was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, with the bags of both women by her side, and their possessions arranged in front of her. She was just picking up the diary of the first victim, and flicking past the first 'details' page, when Sherlock's entrance into the room drew her attention instantly towards his looming figure. He was standing tall and confident, and watching her expectantly, with an expression which she recognised instantly: it was the look he gave her when he was about to suggest something which he believed could be crossing either professional or personal boundaries. She suspected it was in relation to the latter, and she was right.

"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked tiredly, removing her glasses as she placed the diary on top of the evidence bag on the ground.

"Watson, I-" he began, before drumming his fingers nervously on his left thigh, and leaning back briefly on his heels, before inhaling deeply and continuing to speak. "You need a break. We both do. And considering the nature of our as yet unfinished conversation from the other night, I felt that we could combine these two issues to come up with a suitable solution."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" she asked nervously, placing her glasses on the floor as she shifted uncomfortably on the ground. The fire behind her felt warmer than it had done before, and so she shuffled forward slightly, much to his amusement. They both knew that it was not the heat source from behind her that was making her feel flushed, but neither of them were willing to admit it, or able to do anything about it. Not at that particular moment, at least.

"I hope you don't mind, Watson, but I have taken the liberty of arranging for a brief excursion for us both this evening. Something to take our minds off the case, and allow us to relax, before approaching the materials with a fresh perspective in the morning." Sherlock paused for a moment, watching her closely for a reaction. Joan's eyes narrowed slightly, and he heard her breath catch in her throat.

"What kind of excursion?" He knew what her response would be before she did, but he was still unprepared for it, and uncertain of exactly how to deal with her question. "Do you mean... like a date?"

"I..." he began, shifting slightly on the spot as he placed one hand in his pocket, and used the other to gesture as he spoke. "Well, yes, of sorts, I suppose" he began, his voice trailing off as he broke eye contact with her. There was a notable yet not unpleasant silence which hung in the air for a few moments, which Sherlock broke. "I apologise if I seem forward, Watson, I just-" he stopped once more, considering his next words carefully before continuing. "I felt that you needed a break, we both did, and as we do so enjoy each other's company, and have discussed the possibility of... of a development in our partnership, I thought that it was possible that you might care to-"

"I would" she stated simply, in a quiet yet amenable tone. "Thank you. What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock released a breath, relief overwhelming him, before he back towards her once more. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, the same shine and sparkle that often made her gravely concerned of his conduct or plans. Her fears were not in the least bit alleviated by his response.

"It's a surprise, Watson" he stated nonchalantly. "Although I do hope it will be to your liking."

Joan watched him for a few moments, considering him with an impassive expression, before nodding perceptibly, in agreement to his statement. "So what would you like me to do?"

Sherlock looked at his watch briefly, before staring at her with a nervous yet animated expression, and offering her a small, warm smile. "If you could be dressed and ready to leave by seven, that would be wonderful."

"And what do I wear?" she asked, crossing her legs and leaning to the side slightly. "I mean, I'll need to know some details of what we are doing before I can-"

"I am sure that whatever you usually wear on such occasions will be perfectly suitable for the evening I arranged for you... for us" he corrected, before nodding towards her once more. She gave him a small smile, thanking him again, and assuring him that she would be ready on time. Sherlock nodded once, before turning on his heels and leaving the room immediately. Joan smiled to herself as she heard the rapidity of his footsteps as he went downstairs to his study.

Joan checked the clock above the fireplace briefly, before turning back and remaining seated on the floor for a few minutes, thinking over Sherlock's speech and conduct. He was attempting to hide his nervousness and uncertainty, which she found to be highly amusing, and which deeply touched her. He was clearly concerned that he had acted presumptuously, and feared that she would be offended by his actions or his conduct. But she wasn't, which reassured them both.

Although the case had been the focal point of their lives for the past week or so, the uncertainty of the nature of their relationship had an undeniable presence, and was certainly something which needed to be addressed. Separately, both Sherlock and Joan had considered whether the fact that this issue had remained unaddressed was having any influence upon their inability to find any plausible leads in this case. Joan was particularly self-critical on this point, blaming herself and her inability to control her emotions when Sherlock was tending to her injury for the current stagnation in the progression of the case. She remembered their brief dalliance with fondness and gratitude, but also with a notable air of concern and confusion. They had both enjoyed those few minutes, relished in them, delighted in the fact that they were able to let themselves go so completely. Afterwards, the event was not directly mentioned or alluded to, save for the conversation they had in the living room regarding the potential of their platonic relationship to become romantic. But despite this, neither of them felt as though these changes would happen. It did not feel real. The more Sherlock and Joan tried to reminisce about the dance, the kiss, the conversation, the further from reality and plausibility each of those events seemed. They were not doubting their feelings for one another because, despite their actions and their conversations, they were both still confused and uncertain as to what their feelings were. They knew something had changed, that as unquestionable. But whether their emotions and actions were due simply to an understandable reaction to their most recent traumas, or whether it was something much deeper than that, and much more natural, remained a mystery to them both.

Joan considered these points for a few minutes, running over the last week or so in her mind. Despite her uncertainty and her apprehension, one thing which she did not question or doubt was the fact that the time that she and Sherlock had spent together in a semi-romantic setting had been wonderful, and had not felt anything other than completely natural. In the moment, at least. But when she considered them in hindsight, she felt her memory and her mind become clouded and uncertain, and she questioned whether their partnership could survive such a development, and whether it was something that they were both prepared to risk. Despite her concerns, she decided that going on the date was something which would have positive consequences: they would have a distraction from the case, which would allow them to approach it with a renewed and clearer perspective, which was something. But her main consolation was that the date would either confirm her fears or alleviate her doubts. He dancing and the kiss had been spontaneous, unforeseen. But the date was not. It was designed, it was structured and, if she knew Sherlock, it was meticulously planned. Things which are spontaneous often feel more natural than things which are planned, as spontaneity is, by definition, free from artificiality: it contains only the most base desires, the most natural and basic of instincts, and the clearest of motivations. Joan was satisfied with this logic, and walked contently up the stairs and towards her bedroom whilst she pondered them further. She was completely oblivious to the fact that, in a room beneath her own, Sherlock was considering the very same thing.

At seven o'clock Sherlock was standing in the foyer, and was dressed in smarter attire than usual, but not overly formal. He decided that maintaining some level of casualness would put Joan at her ease, and decrease any levels of artificiality or obligation that would cause both parties to feel uneasy. He was wearing a white shirt, black waistcoat and matching trousers, with patent leather shoes and his nicest black jacket. As he checked his watch and turned from the door to face the stairs, he found himself met with the figure of Joan Watson, who radiated elegance and beauty as she descended the stairs. Joan was wearing her hair down this time, and it was curled delicately at the bottom, whilst shaping her face perfectly. She was wearing a fitted white lace dress with a demure neckline and elbow-length sleeves, which she matched with black heels, a black clutch bag and a black scarf. Her eyes were bright and wary, and her lips were painted a shade of purple-brown which completed the look. Sherlock admired her beauty and her presence as he took a few steps towards her, offering her his hand as she reached the bottom of the steps, which she accepted readily.

"Are you still not gonna tell me anything about tonight?" she asked in a warm and slightly-amused tone. "Surely you can tell me something-"

"I assure you, Watson, the surprise will be worth it" he stated simply, before leading her towards the door, but turning back to face her before he opened it. "Would you mind?" he began, as he slowly removed her scarf from her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck briefly as he did so, causing them both to stare at each other with wide and expectant eyes. Sherlock folded the scarf over lengthways, before taking a hold of each end and raising it slightly in the air. "I really would like this to be a surprise" he stated in a low, husky tone. Joan eyed him with curiosity for a moment, before taking a step closer to him and tilting her neck up slightly, her eyes not breaking their stare.

"Of course you would" she sighed, before turning on the spot and closing her eyes. She felt Sherlock move behind her, the tight muscles in his chest brushing her back, causing her to arch slightly. Sherlock noticed this with curiosity, before wrapping the scarf gently across her eyes, and securing it behind her neck.

"Are you ready?" he asked, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently easing her towards him, so that she was facing the door.

"Ready for what?" she asked innocently. "You haven't told me where we're going, what the plan is, or even how long-"

"Brooklyn Bridge, a surprise, about ten minutes" he stated simply, placing one hand on her back and leading her through the door. She felt the coolness of the air brush her flushed cheeks, causing her to stand still at the top of the steps and breathe in the night air. She found this incredibly comforting, and often stood planted on the spot like this for a few moments before jogging in the early morning or late evening. The sensation still felt as new and as fresh to her as it had done when she first moved into the brownstone, and she relished it every bit as much as she had done originally. Joan was only drawn from her thoughts by the feeling of Sherlock's right arm wrapping itself across her back and drawing her to his side, with a notable degree of caution and formality which caused her to smile.

"It's alright, Sherlock" she stated warmly, turning to face him. She could not see anything through the opaque material of the scarf, but could accurately deduce his location based on the position of his arm. She heard him sigh contently, before placing her right hand in his left, and gently guiding her down the steps. Their hands were clasped tightly, and she was so entranced by the familiar sensation of contentment and satisfaction which she currently felt, that she was surprised to feel herself eased onto the cool leather seats of a vehicle, which she could not identify.

"Sherlock?" she asked with confusion, as she felt him lean across her to connect her seatbelt. "Sherlock where are-"

"I took the liberty of hiring a driver for the evening, Watson" he responded immediately, before moving from her and standing by the open door. "Michael is a wonderful young gentleman who has assisted me at times in the past, and is completely at our disposal for the evening."

"Right" she sighed, turning her head from left to right, in a vain attempt to try to deduce something about her surroundings.

"Just relax, Watson" he stated kindly, before closing the door softly, and moving around the back of the car towards the other door, and seating himself behind her. The ten-minute journey was passed in silence, with Joan's mind whirring with possibilities. She was considering all the buildings around Brooklyn Bridge: the restaurants, theatres, clubs, but she could not think of anything specific that he would have arranged. He was unpredictable, an enigma, and she liked that. But she still found her mind racing with ideas, and felt overwhelmed by the desire to know more about what was happening. She was never one for surprises, but she knew Sherlock, and she knew that, whatever he had planned, would be well-thought out and designed for her personal satisfaction. A bespoke date. She was grateful for this, of course, but also slightly concerned. As the car came to a stop, the sound of gravel and grit crunching beneath the wheels permeating the silence, she hoped that the evening would be pleasant for him too.

"We have arrived" Sherlock stated simply, unclasping Joan's seatbelt and then his own, before opening his door and getting out of the car, closing it behind him as he made his way over to Joan's side of the vehicle. Joan was aware of his movements and his actions, and turned her head from the left to the right, following the sound of his footsteps as he moved around the car and opened the door, before pausing for a moment and then beginning to address her. "Alright, Watson" he began, in a tone containing a barely-noticeable yet evident degree of apprehension and concern. Joan knew this tone, she knew his voice better than she did her own, and she could tell that he was worried about how she would react to whatever it was he had planned for her. "I am going to help you from the car, walk you forward a few paces, and then remove your blindfold, alright?"

"Yes" she replied instantly, turning her head to face him, and offering him a polite smile. "I'm ready."

Sherlock took a few steps towards her, before clasping both of her hands in his, and leading her slowly and with great care from the car, closing the door behind her. She turned her head slightly at the sound of the slamming door, before the gentle squeeze of her hands by Sherlock's own reassured her, and he removed one hand from hers and placed it on her lower back, leading her forwards. In this short space of time, Joan was trying to figure out exactly what was going on, and where she was. She could smell the familiar scent of the night air, and felt and mixture of gravel and dirt beneath her feet. As Sherlock led her forwards a few steps, she listened out for any sounds. She heard the familiar sounds of distant traffic, of horns and engines and revving motorbikes. She could not tell where this was coming from, though, as it seemed to be almost from above her. She kept her head faced forwards, and took a few steps more, before stopping without Sherlock's prompting, as she heard something else, something which confused her slightly.

"Is that... Sherlock is that water?" she asked, turning her head from left to right, before facing directly ahead and trying to focus on the sound of gentle ripples and the movement of a large, vast body of water. "You said we were going on Brooklyn bridge, are we... are past it, or-"

"I said we were going _to_ Brooklyn Bridge, Watson" Sherlock stated, before removing his hands from her body and taking a few steps in front of her, until she could feel his presence directly in front of her. "I also said that this was a _surprise_" he stated teasingly, which earned him a small laugh and a smile from Joan, who continued to move her head from left to right. "For once, Miss Watson, your deductive skills are not required. If you remain still for a few moments, and cease your convincing impression of an avid Wimbledon fan, I will remove your blindfold."

Before she could consider a funny comeback or witty comment, Sherlock had deftly removed her scarf from her face, and she found herself staring up at him once more, accepting her scarf gratefully from him as she blinked several times, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Except, it wasn't darkness. At least, not completely.

She was standing beneath Brooklyn bridge.

Joan looked around for a moment, without actually moving, as her feet were planted firmly on the floor. She could see the water in front of her, the lights of the buildings, and the foundations of the bridge which held the traffic above her head. The vast body of water in front of her was a dark, liquid mass, which provided a comforting and almost therapeutic backtrack to the otherwise cool, silence and fairly desolate evening. After gazing at the beauty of the water, the brightness of the lights from the city, and the gentle and comforting rippling of the water, Joan tilted her head upwards to face Sherlock directly, giving him a look of confusion and bewilderment.

"This is a beautiful spot, Sherlock" she consoled, glancing around once more. "But what is it that you-"

"Turn around" he stated, in a voice somewhere between a whisper and an echo. Her eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, before she turned slowly on the spot, and gazed in awe at what stood not twenty feet in front of her.

She and Sherlock were standing on a platform surrounding one of the large beams beneath the bridge, which was holding them between the water and the road. Directly in front of her, to her surprise and complete amazement, was a boat. Boats were not Joan's speciality, but it appeared to be some kind of modern boat with an impressively large and recently varnished decking, which she estimated to be approximately twenty feet in length. It was white and glistening, with large sails which were drifting in the air, almost in perfect timing with the rippling of the water. Despite the fact that the city was almost completely covered in darkness, the boat shone due to an array of splendid candles which had been arranged around the decking and near the mast. It was beautiful, like something from another world, another time. Not, here, not now. And certainly not in relation to Joan Watson. As Joan took a couple of cautious steps forwards, she became aware of the fact that the boat, despite being perfectly still, was not uninhabited. Three men holding violins stood in the centre, with their backs against the small construction in the centre of the boat, where an associate of Sherlock's was sitting behind the wheel.

"Sherlock what..." she began, breathing the words as she turned to face him, her eyes alight and burning with anticipation and awe. "What is this?"

"Well, I-" he began, taking a few steps towards her and standing by her side. "The gentleman who will be taking us out this evening-"

"Wait, what?" she interrupted, turning towards him. "Taking us where?"

"Oh, just for a brief trip across the river. I remember you once telling me that you picked late-night jogging routes with a view of the Hudson, as you liked how it looked and sounded at night. You said it comforted you. So I thought, instead of taking you to a location near the Hudson, I'd take you to it. Directly to the source, so to speak" he stated, pursing his lips together as he continued to gaze towards the water, finding himself unable to meet her gaze. "The Captain's name is James Relliten. He is an associate of mine from London, who called me last week to inform me he was in the city, and that he was in possession of a rather beautiful boat. I helped him in London, and he offered me his services this evening."

Sherlock turned slightly, his clasped hands resting behind his back, as he watched Joan's face with interest. She did not seem averse to his surprise, quite the opposite. Her eyes were brimming with emotion, and she wore the same expression she bore the night when he told her that he would not harm anyone like he had harmed Moran because of her. He watched her for a few moments, and decided to wait for her to speak. She was lost for words for a while, gazing from Sherlock to the boat, and then back to him.

"And the violinists?" she asked in a low, almost breathless tone. She would have expanded on her question, but found herself completely and utterly devoid of her powers of speech. Instead she stood staring at the boat, mesmerised by the lights and the sounds, and staring in awe at the three well-dressed gentlemen who were standing silently by, awaiting instruction. She was so transfixed by this image that she did not see Sherlock raise one hand and signal to them, which caused them to begin to play immediately. The piece of music they played seemed remarkably familiar to her, and she closed her eyes for a few moments to take it in completely, before realising where she had heard it before. It was not a classical piece, nor was it something she had heard whilst out with friends. Instead, it originated from her own place of residence, and from the accomplished talents of her partner.

"Did you write this?" she asked, opening her eyes as she turned towards him. Sherlock was watching the violinists with wide and beaming eyes, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes as they played, before nodding slowly and gradually towards Joan.

"Yes, Watson" he stated eventually, opening his eyes and finding her staring at him with a look on her face which he could not identify. He took a hesitant step towards her, before holding out his right hand, which she accepted, allowing herself to be led to the boat. Sherlock stepped on first, before leading her onto it, and holding both of her hands as her feet reached the decking.

"I've never been on a boat before." She said simply, her hands remaining in his as she glanced around the vessel.

"I know" he mumbled, causing her eyes to meet his instantly, meeting his warm look with one of gratitude. "So, Miss Watson" he began, releasing one of her hands and walking with her towards the middle of the candle-lit decking, before turning towards her once more. "May I have this dance?" They were both struck by the familiarity of these words, and each smiled slightly at the memory of their first 'dance' together, when they had been working on the case involving the threatened politician.

"I would've thought our first Waltz was more than enough for you" Joan smiled, before taking a step towards him and allowing him to wrap one arm around her waist, as he held their entwined hands in mid-air, conscious of her shoulder injury. "I'm surprised that it is something you feel brave enough to revisit."

"Dancing with you that evening, Watson" Sherlock began, as he led her slowly and gracefully across the decking to the sound of the violins, "was an experience which I would be honoured to repeat. However, as you are about to observe" he began, releasing his arm from her back before spinning her outwards, so she turned gracefully in small circles until she stopped near the side of the boat, extending her arm naturally as she gazed back at their still-entwined hands. She smiled briefly, but before she could respond any further, Sherlock quickly drew her back towards him, before releasing his hold on her hand and placing both his arms across her back, and leaning her towards the ground, so that the inches between her head and the decking were few, and her position was secured by his own strong arms, "this is not a Waltz". Joan smiled once more, and laughed slightly as Sherlock lifted her from the ground, resumed their original position, and began to dance with her around the decking. They continued this for several minutes, their eyes remaining fixed in a mutual gaze, as they clung to each other, their bodies pressed tightly together as they moved expertly across the decking, in perfect timing with the music. They were so completely enraptured in their dance and their company, that they did not notice that the boat had begun to move almost the second they reached the decking, and was currently positioned almost exactly halfway between the bridge and the city, the bright lights shining down upon the decking.

"Then what is it?" Joan asked some minutes later, after such a period of duration that it took Sherlock a few seconds to realise what she was referring to.

"This? Oh, this is what we do best, Watson" he stated, before drawing her as close to him as he could, before placing one hand on her thigh and dipping her to the ground as he had done a week ago in the ballroom. Joan breathed in shakily before finding herself being pulled closer to him once more, their bodies pressed together as her thigh rested over his, their faces practically touching. "Spontaneity" he murmured breathlessly, as they each felt the familiar sensation of their hearts racing next to one another, with their bodies quivering with anticipation and desire. They remained like this for a few seconds, their wide-eyes and dilated pupils focused so intently upon each other that their vision became slightly blurred. Ever since reaching the decking, both Sherlock and Joan had felt their previous reservations and concerns regarding the changing nature of their relationship abandon them completely. Instead, they found themselves overwhelmed by the familiar feelings of longing and desire, which they were both battling to suppress. Not because they did not want to be together, or to continue with what they had started. But because they were afraid of what would happen if they did.

"What are we doing?" Joan breathed, her eyes dropping from Sherlock's own for a moment. She suddenly became aware of how far out in the river they were, and how bright the city lights were. It felt as though she and Sherlock were in a limbo-like state, somewhere between the dream-like and idyllic life which the boat and their dance represented, and the bright lights of the city, which represented their duties, obligations and, in essence, their reality.

"We're dancing, Watson" Sherlock breathed huskily as Joan pondered her thoughts, staring past Sherlock and at the city lights. She felt his hold on her loosen slightly, and he took a cautious step back, whilst ensuring that his arms were around her, supporting her completely should she require it. "I'm sorry if I have been forward or inappropriate. If you would like us to stop this and head back, then that is precisely-"

"No, I don't want you to stop" she stated in an absent-minded tone, her eyes still fixed on the bright lights of the city behind them, before drifting slowly to meet Sherlock's gaze. "And that's what frightens me."

Before he could respond, Sherlock's phone began to ring in his pocket, causing Joan to sigh slightly in relief. She was feeling slightly anxious and confused, and welcomed the brief distraction. It would allow her a few moments to think, to process everything, and to consider what to do next.

"Yes, Captain?" stated Sherlock in a low tone, as Joan walked slowly towards the side of the decking, holding onto the rail and leaning forwards slightly. She could feel the refreshing and comforting breeze greeting her face, which revitalised her slightly, and sobered her desire-ridden mind, allowing her to think much more clearly. _The nautical equivalent of a cold shower_ she mused, before pushing herself from the railings and turning to face Sherlock, who had become very quiet. "Yes. No, absolutely Captain, we will. Yes, straight away." He hung up then, placing the phone back in his pocket, before turning towards Joan, who was leaning against the railings slightly, and watching him intently.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, removing her hands from the railing and crossing her arms in front of her. After disentangling her body from Sherlock's, and ceasing to dance, she was suddenly aware of how cold it was. She looked around for her scarf, which she believed was in her bag next to the Captain. Before she could move towards it, she felt Sherlock's presence before her once more. He had removed his black jacket and was draping it over her shoulders in a chivalrous and utterly no-strings-attached manner, before taking a few steps back to allow her some of the space which he believed she was currently in need of. "Thank you" she mumbled, offering him a polite yet nervous smile. She felt slightly guilty about her semi-rebuff. Only it wasn't a rebuff, not exactly. She wasn't rejecting him per se, she was simply voicing her concerns as to what could happen if they allowed themselves to surrender to their emotions and their desires, instead of to their minds. To two individuals whose relationship revolved around logic and reason and deductions, surrendering completely to their emotions seemed painfully ironic. But their relationship, despite it's basis on logic and reason and rationale, was not defined by such. Nor was it devoid of all emotion. Quite the contrary, in fact. Joan found that the variety emotions and feelings she experienced in her partnership with Sherlock by far outweighed all the emotions she felt when with any other friend, male or female, romantically or platonically. Their relationship was an enigma, but not invincible, as recent events had confirmed. Like all things of beauty and mystery, it was shrouded in uncertainty and the need to be protected. The more time she spent with him, and the closer they became, the more she realised that she did not want to sever their connection in any way. She could not bear to lose him, and she knew that it would destroy him too. And yet, they had an undeniable romantic connection, which overwhelmed them both to the point of madness.

"That was Captain Gregson" Sherlock stated, interrupting Joan's thoughts, which she was grateful for. Sherlock's voice was normal and convicted, and did not contain any notable elements of sadness or dejection. She was grateful for that too. "Another victim has just been found, believed to have been dead for less than half an hour."

Joan was instantly sobered by this news, and forgot all about the musings of their current relationship, which she had been comparing to a Bronte novel. "What? How did they get the call so quickly?"

"The woman was found in the same building as victim number two." He responded immediately, before turning towards the Captain and gesturing to him. "Due to the recent incident there was an increased police presence in the building, and further security measures were installed. The latest victim was found by a security guard who was performing a routine sweep of the building. He found her fifteen minutes ago, and swears she was not there when he performed the same check fifteen minutes before that, so-" Sherlock gestured emphatically with his hands, before turning to face Joan directly. "Are you quite warm enough, Watson?" he asked, his voice adopting a kinder and more sombre tone. She nodded in response, drawing his jacket closer to her, before turning to face the bridge to which they were rapidly approaching.

"Two women in the same building, four days apart? That's brazen. I mean, it's borderline moronic" she stated, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

"And yet" began Sherlock, turning from the bridge to Joan. "The killer has eluded the police once more."

"We know next to nothing about this guy" Joan stated simply, crossing her arms inside the jacket once more. "He is the greatest elusion, an expert at being covert and yet accurate, present but hidden."

"I wouldn't say the _greatest_ elusion, Watson" Sherlock responded as they reached the edge of the platform onto the bridge. "Life provides us all with a far greater elusion."

Before she could pose a question, Sherlock began to assist the Captain in mooring the vessel, before slowly approaching Joan and helping her to depart. She accepted his hand once more, and felt her body filled with the same longing and desire as their hands connected and their fingers entwined. He helped her from the boat and onto dry ground, before turning and waving to the Captain and the violinists, who Joan also thanked graciously. Sherlock then led her back to the car and the waiting valet, easing her into her seat before giving their driver some instructions, and they drove off into the night. The journey was silent once more, but not uncomfortably so. Although it was clear that there was much to be discussed, the words did not hang in the air, and no feelings of anger or ill-will lingered. Instead, confusion and uncertainty, so potent they were practically tangible, rode as unwelcome passengers on the brief yet troubling journey.

The sleek, black vehicle arrived at the familiar building which had become a crime-scene for the second time in just a week. Joan stared out of the window for a moment, before thanking the driver warmly and opening her own door, walking around the car and mounting the pavement before Sherlock even had time to unbuckle his seatbelt. She need air, she needed to walk, and she needed work. Her thoughts were confused and muddled, and she was surprised that she had actually found herself with less clarity and certainty regarding her relationship with Sherlock than she had possessed before their date began. She waited on the pavement for Sherlock, who joined her presently, and they walked towards the building together. A couple of familiar-looking police officers recognised the consultants immediately, and escorted them to the scene of the latest murder, which was in an office on the third floor.

"She's not been dead long, Miss" one of the officers stated to Joan as he pressed some buttons in the elevator. "The Captain reckons she can't have been dead for more than forty minutes. I mean, this place was crawling with cops and security guards, I just don't get why someone would risk coming in and doing this. In this building, at this time, in this situation."

"A more pertinent question would be 'how'" interjected Sherlock, turning towards the officer as he spoke. "How does an individual enter and exit a building with such a pronounced police presence? And how does he act out such a brutal and callous act without attracting any attention?"

"I hope you're not suggesting that-"

"He's not suggesting anything, officer" Joan stated immediately, in her kindest and most placating tone. "We're just thinking out loud, is all. Figuring out the answers to these questions will help us to understand the killer, and kind a way of stopping him." The office's red face paled slightly, and he nodded in understanding, before casting a wary look at Sherlock, whose gaze was fixed firmly on the doors in front of him. As the elevator came to a stop, Sherlock turned towards the officer, posing a final question.

"There have been no reports or sightings of anyone on this or any other floor within the last hour or so?" he asked in a much more respectful and considerate tone, which Joan was grateful for.

"No sir" the officer replied curtly. "The Captain ordered a sweep of this floor and the ones directly above and below it, but we didn't find anything. No trace whatsoever. We're looking into getting the CCTV footage, but we aren't hopeful. This guy seems too smart for that."

"They always do, Officer" replied Sherlock. "Until they are caught." The officer nodded in agreement, before leading Sherlock and Joan down the corridor and ushering them towards an office at the bottom of the hall. The door to the office was wide open, and the familiar figures of Gregson and Bell could be seen inside. The corridor was eerily quiet, with the infrequent sound of the flash of the cameras occasionally punctuating the silence. To the right of the office was a door to an adjacent office, which the officer informed them was locked. To the left of the office door was a small corridor, leading to two more officers and an out of service elevator. The corridor was dark and uninviting, but as the trio reached the door to the crime scene, they triggered one of the motion-sensing lights on the ceiling, which illuminating the small corridor in a synthetic glow. Joan stared down the corridor absently for a moment, before finding that her gaze was fixed upon the out of service elevator at the end of the corridor. The sign was at an angle, and there was something about it that did not seem quite right. Moreover, the light above it was on, with the number '3' printed on the screen to indicate the floor number. Joan stared at it for a moment, her eyes narrowing in confusion, as she found herself considering what could be wrong with an elevator which appeared to be working just fine.

"I just need a minute, so I'll meet you guys inside, okay?" she asked, directing her question at the door rather than anyone in particular. Sherlock watched her with confusion for a moment, before nodding politely and verbally affirming her statement. He thought that she may need a few moments to collect herself before entering the room which, based on the confusion of the past hour or so, was not unsurprising or unreasonable.

"Join us when you are quite ready, Watson" he stated amiably, causing Joan to turn from the corridor to face him directly, and offer him a reassuring smile which he willingly accepted, before entering the room with the other police officers, and leaving Joan quite alone in the corridor.

Joan tilted her head to the side slightly, before walking slowly down the corridor and towards the elevator, the sound of her heels on the ground muffled by the cream-carpet which she found herself sinking into. She glanced briefly at the artwork on both walls for a moment, admiring one piece in particular, before trying the handles on both office doors: they were locked. Joan paused for a moment, standing a few feet away from the elevator, and considering it with interest. The sign was lop-sided, there were no signs of maintenance equipment or action, and the lighting and sounds associated with elevators were still present. From a purely layman's perspective, she could not figure out what the issue was at all. But she would find out.

Joan took a few steps casually towards the elevator, running her fingers down the 'Out of Order' sign, and finding herself surprised at the fact that her fingers felt notably sticky. Although the corridor was lit by some artificial lighting, the bulbs were flickering angrily, occasionally blacking out for a couple of seconds at a time, before beaming bright light down upon her just seconds later. As she looked down at her hand, she found that the stickiness was residue from the black ink used to make the sign. A sign which, for some reason, had been hastily hand-written and pinned up rather haphazardly. In the few moments it took Joan to realise the significance of this fact, the elevator doors were prised open quickly, and she found herself facing a dark, hooded figure brandishing a bloodied knife.


	7. Chapter 7

Joan stared ahead at the figure in front of her, her eyes widening as the doors slowly opened, and the darkly-dressed individual took a step towards her, raising the knife slightly in the air. The figure was completely covered by dark clothing, with the only sign of life beneath being a pair of piercing blue eyes which were glaring at Joan. As soon as the doors opened enough for the figure to pass through, it did, walking straight towards Joan, the blade raised in the air. Joan acted immediately, raising her hands to grab the knife. She wrapped both of her hands around the bottom of the blade, pushing down with force upon the gloved hand of the bearer. They struggled like this for a few moments, before the assailant twisted Joan's hands slightly, before pushing her against the wall with such force that she found herself being temporarily winded.

As Joan struggled to regain control of her breathing, her attacker's free arm was pushed against her throat, pinning her to the wall. The two individuals fought each other for a few moments, Joan battling to maintain her hold on the knife which was glistening in front of her, whilst attempting to breathe normally. The pressure on her neck was increasing, preventing her from breathing steadily, let alone scream. Joan's breathing increased and she began to feel tired and light-headed, as she continued to attempt to pull the blade from the hand of her attacker, who increased the pressure on Joan's neck at the action. After a few moments, Joan felt her arms feel heavy and her limbs become tired and weak, and her grasp slowly fell from the hilt of the knife. As she did so, she felt herself slump against the wall slightly, her head falling slightly to the side. She was willing herself to stay awake, forcing her eyes to remain open, and fixed upon the hand holding the knife, which was just inches from her face. After a few moments, Joan felt the arm which was pressed against her neck relinquish its hold slightly, and her eyes widened as she took in a deep, revitalising breath. As the attacker's arm moved slightly from her neck, their other hand was drawn back to near their head, raising the knife in a threatening manner, their intentions clear.

Joan's eyes were drawn to the risen blade, which she found to be an incredibly sobering and action-inspiring stunt. Within a second, adrenaline was coursing through her veins, and she found herself feeling more alert than ever before. As the attacker attempted to stab her, she grabbed their wrist, leaning slightly to the side as she forced the blade of the knife into the wall. The first inch or so of the blade was firmly implanted into the wall, in a space mere inches from her face, as she continued to attempt to push the attacker back. The attacker was pulling at the blade desperately, but was prevented from removing it by its position in the wall, and by the renewed strength of Joan, whose eyes were ablaze. After a couple of seconds, the attacker pulled the knife from the wall, and would have made another attempt on Joan's life, had it not been for the fact that the noise from the hallway had attracted the attention of the detectives working in the room at the end of the corridor. Before the attacker could attempt a second blow, the sounds of the struggle had drawn Sherlock and Gregson from the room, and the pair were standing at the other end of the corridor, having rushed from the crime scene to the sounds of distress. Joan was aware of movement from Sherlock, and could vaguely make out some instructions which Gregson was barking at a small cluster of officers who were pooling out from the crime scene.

"Watson!" Sherlock yelled, running towards her as he saw the hooded figure brandishing a blade inches from the face of his companion. Joan's eyes turned to face him immediately, but her hands did not loosen their grip upon the wrist of her attacker. However, the sight of Sherlock and Gregson, as well as a couple of other officers who had rushed from the room to investigate the commotion, caused the assailant to re-think their actions. Joan felt the hand which she was holding be pulled back instantly, with such force that she fell against the wall once more, her shoulder aching from the repeated contact. Instead of approaching her once more, the figure moved past her and ran back towards the elevator, leaping inside and pushing the buttons furiously. The elevator doors closed behind the figure almost immediately, and Joan watched the elevator absent-mindedly for a few moments, until the sound of the 'ping' as the doors fully closed drew her from her reverie. Joan closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, placing a shaking hand over her mouth as she attempted to re-establish her breathing. She was vaguely aware of the sound of approaching footsteps, and found her eyes snapping open as she felt a pair of strong and familiar hands grip the tops of her arms tightly, pulling her gently up the wall and into a more secure standing position.

"Joan" the voice called breathlessly, drawing her attention to Sherlock's face, as he pulled her tightly to him. She found herself leaning into him gratefully, her head resting on his shoulder, as she moved her hands slowly up his back. She found herself regaining her self-control and confidence, the contact they shared alleviating her fears. She turned her head slightly so that her left cheek rested against his own, and she began to whisper earnestly in his ear, her voice still uncertain and slightly shaken.

"It's okay, I'm fine" she stated simply, as she felt his grip upon her tightening. "I'm okay."

Joan felt herself sobered by the her renewed sense of safety and comfort, but more so by the surprising actions of Sherlock. Despite their recent romantic encounters, which had brought them together in a similar level of physical proximity, there was something different about their current encounter. This level of closeness, of platonic intimacy, is something which they usually only experienced in private. The fact that he was holding her close to him, supporting her with one hand whilst running the other gently down the back of her neck as she leaned into him, whilst Gregson, Bell and a couple of other officers were staring at the scene before them, was something which made their closeness seem so surreal. Sherlock had never shown this level of physical closeness or consideration for Joan to anyone other than her, which made their current embrace seem so different and so unusual. And yet, despite them both being aware of the eyes which were glaring at them with such incredible intensity, they did not feel uncomfortable or unnatural. In fact, their current embrace felt more natural and more comforting than anything else that they had shared to date. Despite their previous conversation on the boat, and the fact that Joan was clearly concerned about where their relationship was leading, they were both comforted by their current level of physical contact. They stayed in this position for several seconds, with Joan repeating that she was 'okay' and 'fine' every few seconds, in an attempt to reassure Sherlock. Although he appeared perfectly calm, the way in which he was holding Joan, and the closeness which he was attempting to establish between them, made her realise just how much he was struggling to hold

himself together at that moment.

"Sherlock" she whispered, as she felt his heart race against her own, just as it had done when they had been dancing. The memory of the dance, and of the feelings of exhilaration and invincibility which she had experienced during it, gave her a new degree of confidence and reassurance which she did not realise that she was capable of possessing at that moment. "Sherlock" she repeated, in a much more confident and normal tone than she had done previously. She felt him adjust himself against her, lowering his hand down her back as he slowly drew his head from hers, cupping the back of her head as he stared down at her intensely, his eyes darting all across her. "It's okay" she soothed, pressing her hand against his heart, causing him to release a shuddering breath. He stared at her for a few moments, his eyes softening as they met hers, before his face adopted a guilt-ridden expression which she desperately wished to alleviate.

"What happened?" He asked delicately, inhaling deeply as he did so.

"I..." she began, glancing from Sherlock to Gregson, who was standing a few steps away from her, with Bell and the other officers rushing about the scene, looking at the elevator before organising themselves quickly. "Something was off with the elevator, but I didn't know what exactly. I came down here to investigate it and-"

"Wait, Watson" Sherlock began, his voice low and tentative, with just the slightest degree of surprise entering his tone. "You thought something was wrong and you chose to investigate alone? Without telling anyone of your suspicions?"

"I didn't have suspicions" she returned, speaking to him gently in order to attempt to reassure him, and placate his rising concerns. "I just noticed that something was off, and I thought that I could-"

"Go off? By yourself? Without telling anyone?" he responded immediately, his voice becoming agitated as he drummed his fingers against the side of his legs, his eyes blazing. "Watson you cannot-"

"Hey, you do it all the time" she returned, a look of incredulity lighting her features. Before she could continue, she realised how distressed Sherlock seemed, and how disturbed he was by what had happened. He was not angry at her, he was angry at the situation she had been in. It was obvious that he held himself responsible, and was currently blaming himself for being unable to protect her from yet another threat to her life. His blame was unnecessary, and she did not believe him to be at all accountable for what she had just experienced. She just hoped that she could make him realise it too. "I didn't know that someone was behind the door, I couldn't possibly know. I came down, realised that the sign was written quickly and recently, and figured that something was being concealed inside. I didn't know that it was a person." She stated gently, tilting her head towards him so that their eyes met. "I didn't know what was in there, I didn't even know exactly what it was that drew me to it. But I didn't think there was a person inside. How could I?" she began, speaking gently to him as she saw the concern and repressed anguish dancing in his eyes as he stared at her with a mixture of fear and amazement. "We go off and investigate things all the time, without informing the other of precisely what it is we are doing. I didn't... I didn't think this was dangerous. As I said, I had no reason to believe that someone was hiding in the elevator-"

"That's because no one should have been" Sherlock said simply, his eyes glazing over for a moment, before he turned from Joan to face Captain Gregson, who was standing a few feet behind him in the corridor, watching Joan with concern. "This area should have been cleared, Captain." Sherlock stated bluntly, as Joan's glance shifted from Sherlock to the Captain, who inhaled deeply and leaned his head back slightly, preparing himself for what he knew would be an argument.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Watson" Gregson began compassionately, staring from her to Sherlock as she addressed the latter's statement. "But my guys did check the area, and they-"

"Oh yes, well, they did a bang up job, Captain, yes" Sherlock began, taking a step towards Gregson, who simply maintained his position, watching Sherlock with caution and anticipation. "Yes, they only missed the knife-wielding serial killer hiding out in a lift, but apart from that, well, yes, fantastic. Commendations all round!"

"Sherlock" Joan stated in a cautionary and authoritative tone, causing his glare upon Gregson to waver slightly, and the anger from his voice to dissipate momentarily, before returning with full force.

"Your error almost cost Watson her life" he stated coolly, his eyes wide and reprimanding, as he took a further step towards Gregson, who remained planted on the spot.

"Holmes, I get it, you're right, we did screw up. And I am sorry, Miss Watson. I don't know how we could have missed it-"

"Nor do I, Captain. But you did. And as a result-"

"So did you, Holmes" Gregson returned, planting his hands in his pockets as he took a step towards Sherlock, whose eyes were burning with anger and repressed rage. "You saw exactly what I saw, you knew the elevator was there and you saw the signs. You saw what I saw, what my men saw, what we all saw. But you didn't connect it to the crime, you didn't connect it to danger. You didn't see anything out of place. Only Miss Watson did." He stated calmly, watching Sherlock's expression as he continued to speak. "She succeeded where she failed, and she almost paid the highest price for it. And you're right, we should have checked that area, it should have been cleared. But the failing was not just mine, Holmes."

Joan could sense the tension in the room, and knew that Sherlock was teetering on the edge of calmness. She knew that it was taking all of his self-control and all of his sanity to maintain the current level of calmness that he was displaying. She took a step towards him and placed a hand on his left arm, which was incredibly tense beneath her touch. She looked up towards his face and saw that his eyes bore a glassy and bewildered expression, which concerned her greatly.

"Sherlock" she called gently, tightening her grip on his arm, but with no affect. He remained standing firmly on the spot, his eyes wild, his entire body tense. "Sherlock" she repeated, before moving her hand slowly down his arm and placing her fingers over his clenched fist. She felt him shift slightly in his position, and his arm trembled before becoming slightly more relaxed, comforted by the familiar feeling of her touch. His fingers separated slightly, not much, but just enough to allow her to place her fingers over his own and squeeze gently, which seemed to draw him from his reverie. He blinked a couple of times, and his head tilted slightly to the side, so he was facing her once more. His eyes were wide and glassy, and he was looking at her with deep concern and complete adoration. She returned his stare for a moment, before beginning to speak, glancing from Sherlock to the Captain as she addressed them both.

"What happened was nobody's fault, alright? No one failed, no one screwed up. The elevator appeared to be out of order, there was no reason to question that. It's understandable that it was overlooked during the primary clearing of the scene." She stated with conviction, before staring at Sherlock as she continued. "We literally only just got the call, and the latest victim has not been dead for more than an hour. There was absolutely no reason to believe that the killer was still on site, and certainly not that they were hiding out in a broken-down elevator."

"That is precisely why scenes must be cleared, Watson" Sherlock spoke gently, all traces of remonstration and anger removed from his voice. "The strangest and unlikeliest of places often play refuge to those who do not wish to be found." He watched Joan for a few more moments, before closing his eyes briefly and turning to Gregson. "You're right, Captain. Not about the scene, of course. It was not cleared properly and it should have been. And it was your error that almost cost Miss Watson her life." He stated brazenly, causing Joan to shift uncomfortably on the spot. Before she could respond, Sherlock continued to speak. "You are right in what you said, though. About errors and about failure. You didn't notice, your men didn't notice, but nor did I." His voice adopted a reflective and absent-minded tone, which disappeared as soon as it had arrived. "But we all failed her, Captain. Not just you, not your team, not me. All of us."

"My men gave chase, Holmes" the Captain answered placatingly, temporarily regretting the tone which he had adopted previously, and the words he had uttered in anger. He and Sherlock were doing the same thing: each were blaming the other to avoid the worrying conclusion that they themselves may be responsible for the nearly-fatal incident which had just befallen one of the people they cared about. Both men shifted their focus from each other and to Joan, who was considering what to say next. She felt tired and emotionally drained, and her recent shoulder injury was throbbing, with the same burning sensation which she had experienced before. Not that she would admit this to Sherlock and Gregson, of course. It would simply reignite the embers of their most recent argument.

"Watson, are you alright?" Sherlock asked kindly, his voice heavy with concern as he turned to face her completely, his back blocking her from Gregson's view.

"Yes, Sherlock" she returned immediately, offering him a small smile. "I'm unharmed."

"Are you." He stated, in more of a declarative tone rather than a question. "Watson, I do not believe that you are." Joan watched him for a moment, her eyes glistening as they met his. In all honesty, she was not okay. But the adrenaline which she had experienced just a few minutes ago was still running through her veins, causing her to feel as though she were flying high, and was almost invincible. She could feign good health and contentment for the moment, but she knew that it could not last forever. She would crash, and she knew it. She was just absolutely determined to ensure that no one else would be there to see it.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It happened so fast, and you guys were here in no time. I'm fine. Now, we need to get to the scene, in order to-"

"Watson, no, absolutely not" Sherlock stated incredulously, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he met her puzzled expression. "I am taking you home. We will return to the precinct in the morning if you are feeling fully recovered, and we will-"

"No" she stated simply, shaking her head slightly. "I'm fine, Sherlock, really. Right now, we need to focus on the case. We're here now, and the scene is just at the end of the corridor. I'm not gonna let you take me home and let me wallow in self-pity. I'm going to do something constructive and I am going to help with this case."

"Watson" he stated calmly yet with conviction and an unmistakable air of authority. "After what you have been through in the past few hours-"

"Someone has killed three women in less than forty-eight hours, Sherlock. We don't have time for this conversation, or to carry out what you are suggesting." She was speaking authoritatively yet tentatively, her tone kind and gentle, almost soothing. She needed to make him understand that her taking a temporary leave of absence from the case would be counter-productive, personally and professionally. "Look, we'll... We'll go in now, spend a few minutes at the scene, and then head to the precinct. If there's an issue, if something is wrong, we can leave. But right now, we need to examine the scene. Okay?"

Sherlock watched her for a moment, and she felt as though she could almost see his thoughts and his array of logical arguments racing through his mind. He knew he would be unable to convince her otherwise, and he knew that she would only continue to fight his suggestions, which would eat up the reserves of her energy which she was currently low on. Still, he did not feel comfortable allowing her to investigate such a bloody and brutal crime, especially when the body of the young woman which was lying mere meters from their current position could have very easily been her own.

"Alright, Watson" he stated in a low, barely-perceptible tone. "We will examine the scene. But on the strict condition that you tell me the moment you begin to feel-"

"Yes, yes, fine." She stated, offering him a small, weak smile. "I will." Sherlock watched her uncertainly for a few moments, before nodding regretfully, and turning to face Gregson.

"Captain, may we?" he asked cordially, in an attempt to rebuild the bridges between himself and Gregson. Gregson nodded politely, indicating towards the door at the end of the corridor, as Sherlock and Joan walked forwards. Gregson followed closely behind, watching Joan as she walked. She was slightly shaken, and her steps were tentative and cautious. Underneath her mask, and beneath the bravado, she was not okay. It was not until this moment that Gregson realised just how far past alright she truly was.

As they approached the opened door which led to the office where the young woman's body lay, Gregson watched Joan intently. She did not hesitate or appear uncomfortable. She did not pause to reflect, or ask a question, or do anything which would deflect from the current situation and allow herself time to prepare herself. Instead, she walked confidently through the threshold, nodding politely to the officer standing on duty, and passed through the office space until she reached the leather couch beneath the window on the fall-right wall, where the familiar sight of the bloodied body of a young woman greeted her. This time, the woman was lying on the couch, one leg over the edge, her head facing the back of the sofa. Her right hand was raised, and lay closed-palmed by her face, which was obscured from view. Like the other women, she was a young, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, in an expensively tailored suit, working late in her office. Joan walked slowly across the room and towards her body, considering her from a distance, before taking a step forward and examining her more closely. Sherlock and Gregson watched her with a mixture of interest and concern, before the latter broke the silence with the familiar sound of his deep, confident voice.

"Victim's name is Alana Morentez, aged thirty-two. She has a high-managerial role here at the company, and was known to the previous victim, who worked in this building. Apparently the two of them used to have lunch together, and occasionally worked together on some work-related issues. The most recent one was the negotiation of a business deal with a client in Japan. Miss Morentez is engaged, and resided with her fiance in the Upper-West Side. He is being notified of her death as we speak, as are her mother and father, who are currently visiting relatives in Hawaii." Sherlock nodded in understanding, informing the Captain that he was listening. However, all of his attention was fixed on Joan, who had moved from her position near the body and was approaching Sherlock and Gregson.

"There are some cardboard boxes in the corner of the room, and her desk is almost bare" Joan began, indicating towards a small area at the back of the room. "Was Miss Morentez moving?"

"No" Gregson began, speaking gently as he addressed her question, impressed by her insight and awareness, especially after recent events. "No, our victim had only just moved into the office. She's been working here for about two weeks, recently transferring herself from a rival company in the city. She had been in a smaller office, but required a larger one to deal with one-to-one client negotiations, so her bosses moved her in here. It's why she was staying so late, according to her PA."

"Is her PA here?" Joan asked. "Can we talk to her?"

"No, no she's not here." Gregson stated, rubbing his hand across his chin as he glanced from Joan to the body of Alana Morentez, and then back to Joan. Seeing them in the same vicinity, examining the injuries of the victim alongside the physical well-being of Joan Watson, made the reality of Joan's near-death experience all the more harrowing. She had been through so much recently, first being kidnapped, and now this. Watching her talking so calmly and so normally after such experiences filled him with a mixture of awe and confusion, which he tried to analyse. He knew that Joan Watson was the type of person who is wonderful at concealing her pain, and her anguish. But he also knew that, like all people, she had a breaking point. And he feared that she would not be able to handle much more pressure and strain. Certainly not from an area which he had recently been made aware of.

"The PA's name is Maria Lennard, who called the office number a couple of minutes after my guys arrived. One of them picked it up, identified himself as a cop, and spoke to the woman. Miss Lennard was apparently very upset, very emotional, and informed the officer that Miss Morentez was staying late this evening to finish unpacking the office. Miss Lennard

was calling her to make sure she was aware that an appointment for the next day had been moved forward an hour." Joan nodded in understanding, before turning back towards the body, then facing Sherlock and Gregson once more.

"I'd say she's been dead for just over an hour. She has four penetrating stab wounds to the abdomen, but no defensive marks. But that may not be too surprising..." she stated, her voice trailing off as she turned and walked back to the body. "Has your ME examined her fully?"

"Yeah, yeah" Gregson began, as he and Sherlock walked slowly towards her. "Go ahead."

Joan put on a pair of latex gloves and slowly approached the young woman's body, before placing one hand on the top of her head and the other on the base of her jaw, before tilting her head slowly towards them.

"It's not completely clear yet, but there is slight discolouration just under her chin" Joan stated, before taking a few steps back and removing her gloves. "I think the assailant stabbed her with his right hand, whilst pinning her back against the couch with his right arm. He applied pressure to her upper neck, which prevented her from moving or crying out." Joan's voice lowered slightly, before trailing off completely. She then turned to face Sherlock and Gregson, before continuing to speak in a much more normal and confident manner. "Is there anything else we should be aware of?" she asked Gregson, who was watching her with concern. Her focus was so devoted to Gregson, in an attempt to avoid the gaze of Sherlock, that she did not see the pained expression upon the face of the latter. Which was just as well, really. It is unlikely she would have been able to handle it.

"No, no. As with the others, no evidence was recovered from the scene, and no immediately connection has been made between this victim and the first. Although she and the second are linked, it isn't exactly a breakthrough. They worked in the same building, so it's understandable."

"It's still relevant, Captain" interceded Sherlock, as he glanced across the room once more. "It's certainly worth investigating further." Gregson nodded in agreement, before verbally agreeing with Sherlock's statement.

"I think we've got all we can get from here" began Gregson, glancing from the room to the doorway. "I'll have my guys examine the elevator and the surrounding area. We'll also examine the wall, it should confirm whether the knife used on Miss Watson is the same one that was used in the crimes."

"Of course" responded Joan, eager to speak before Sherlock had the chance. Whilst she did not fear another outburst on his part, she did anticipate one. "Is there anything else you need?"

"I'll need a statement, Miss Watson" he replied hesitantly, shifting slightly on the spot. Joan nodded in understanding, pulling on the latex tip of one of the gloves she was holding, before walking slowly towards the doorway.

"Absolutely" she stated simply, offering him a kind smile, before strolling confidently through the office and towards the door. Sherlock and Gregson exchanged a look, before following closely behind her.

The trio arrived at the precinct a few minutes later, with Detective Bell and a few other officers close behind them. Gregson led Sherlock and Joan through the doors to the building and towards the familiar investigation room, which hosted the boards and files containing all information relating to their current case. Joan stepped slowly into the room, crossing it and walking towards the empty table, before taking a seat. Gregson, Sherlock and Bell entered the room immediately afterwards. Bell walked slowly towards Joan, drawing a chair out from a nearby table, and sitting himself down directly in front of her. She watched him with interest for a few moments, already aware of what he was about to ask.

"Miss Watson, do you feel ready to give a statement about earlier?" he asked tentatively.

"Of course" Joan replied simply, in as normal and confident a tone as she could muster. "Whatever you need."

Bell turned towards Gregson, who was standing next to Sherlock at the other end of the room. Gregson returned the stare, before turning to Sherlock and leaning towards him. "You got a minute?" Sherlock hesitated, not moving his fixed glance from Joan.

"Captain" he began in a low and barely audible tone. "I hardly think that-"

"She'll find it easier to talk if we aren't here, Holmes. You know that. She will talk more openly and more freely without fear of upsetting you."

Sherlock sighed, nodding slowly at Gregson's statement, before pursing his lips and turning from the Captain to Joan, who was talking quietly to Bell.

"Watson, Captain Gregson requires my assistance. I will be in his office if you need anything."

"Of course" she stated in the same pleasant and amiable tone she had used with Bell. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded, before walking from the room and towards Gregson's office. The Captain moved ahead of him, unlocking the door and indicating for him to go inside. Sherlock walked past him, his arms resting by his sides, before turning on the spot to face Gregson as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. At first, Sherlock had believed that Gregson's words had been nothing more than a rouse to get him out of the room, and allow Joan and Bell the chance to discuss the incident in the best and most comfortable situation for all parties. But now, he became acutely aware of the possibility of there being more to Gregson's words than he had initially realised. The Captain was standing in an imposing yet notably agitated manner, and had his hands planted firmly in his pockets, whilst he stared at Sherlock with a mixture of remonstration and confusion.

"What is it, Captain?" Sherlock asked after a few seconds.

"Take a seat" the Captain stated kindly, indicating towards the couch at the back of his office.

"Thank you, but I'd prefer to stand" Sherlock returned, in a voice which was devoid of cruelty or difficulty. He simply had no wish to make himself feel comfortable when Joan was reliving one of the most traumatising and frightening moments of her life. "What is it?" he asked, wishing to draw his attention as far from the subject as he could.

"It's Joan" Gregson stated simply, walking over to his desk and leaning against it, placing his hands on the top of it as he watched Sherlock with interest. His features were soft, but could not hide his concern. He was speaking gently, and in a comforting and reassuring tone, but one which clearly revealed deep-seated fear and reservations.

"What about her?" Sherlock asked cautiously, uncertain of where this particular line of questioning was leading.

"Look, I-" Gregson began, raising one hand in the air before allowing it to fall by his side once more. "I don't know the exact... nature of your relationship, but... but what I do know is that, until recently at least, it has always remained one of... friendship. Complex, yet. Not traditional, of course. But then again, I doubt that you have traditional or conventional relationships, even ones with friends." Gregson stated, as Sherlock continued to watch him with concern and mild confusion.

"I'm sorry, Captain" Sherlock began gently, turning on the spot to face his colleague directly. "But I am not quite sure what it is that you are asking me."

"It's none of my business, Holmes. God knows it isn't. Please understand that I am only bringing this up because I care about you. Both of you. And I wanna make absolutely sure that you are both alright." Sherlock did not respond to this statement immediately, but slowly nodded a few seconds later, permitting the Captain to continue. "Are you guys involved?"

"Involved?" Sherlock repeated, pronouncing the word very carefully, as he continued to watch the Captain with an impassive expression.

"Romantically, I mean." Gregson added for clarification, but in a gentle and non-accusational tone. He did not wish Sherlock to feel uncomfortable, but he felt certain that this line of inquiry was necessary.

"I don't understand why you-"

"The way you were with her today" he responded simply, anticipating Sherlock's next question. "The way you acted after her attack, the way you comforted her, and how you-"

"A serial killer had almost slain her in a corridor less than thirty yards from a small army of police officers. I think I can be forgiven for comforting-"

"Holmes, Holmes, this is not an interrogation, okay? And it certainly isn't some kind of criticism. It's just... something that I observed, something I have been wondering about for a few days now, and something which I felt I needed to address."

"Needed to address" Sherlock repeated. "Why?"

"I told you, Holmes. It's because I care about you both. And when you care about people, you sometimes find yourself asking them things, posing questions, that they find uncomfortable. And believe me, I take no great pleasure in invading your privacy. And even less so in invading hers."

"Then why are you?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and confused, but not cruel or confrontational. He was not being difficult or rude, instead, his tone simply revealed his uncertainty at this line of questioning, and its rationale. "And why is it something you believe needs to be discussed?"

"Because I don't think you are aware of just how much she cares about you."

Sherlock paused for a moment, allowing Gregson's words to sink in, and considering them for a few more moments before responding. "Surely if we were romantically involved, I would have a fair understanding of how she... of how she feels?"

"No" Gregson stated gently, shaking his head as he continued to talk to Sherlock in the same kind and paternal tone that he always adopted when they had these kinds of conversations. "I think Joan is one of the most complex people you have met, and that's part of what attracts you to her. Platonically, romantically, whatever." He stated, ensuring that Sherlock was aware that this conversation was not some gossip-driven attempt at invading his or Joan's privacy but was, rather, simply a friend expressing his concern for people he cared about. "And one of the greatest things about her is her compassion. It's what makes her who she is, and it is one of the reasons why she sees things that other people miss. She understands people, Holmes. She knows how best to reach out to people, to protect them. Everything she does, and everything she has done, has revolved around taking care of people. Physically, when she was a doctor. Emotionally, when she was a companion. And now, she is protecting people physically and emotionally, often at the expense of herself."

"You believe she is sacrificing herself for me?" Sherlock stated simply, his tone lowering. "Or to me, perhaps?"

Gregson breathed in slowly, considering how best to phrase his response. "I believe that... whatever you guys have, is your own. It's something that has nothing to do with anyone else, just yourselves. Which is why I find this particular conversation so difficult. I don't wanna be asking you these questions because I respect you. As an investigator, and as a human being. I also respect Joan Watson, and everything she stands for. It is out of that respect that I am discussing this with you." Gregson paused for a moment, pushing himself against his desk so he was standing in an upright position, and facing Sherlock directly. "Whatever you guys have, whatever your relationship entails, is something which many people will not understand. But whatever it is, whatever you have, works. Usually. When there are clear boundaries between two people, boundaries which are agreed upon and which are strong, their friendship or their partnership can remain strong. But when those boundaries are blurred, it becomes confusing. Less certain, and more problematic."

"What are you saying, Captain?" Sherlock asked after a few moments, his mind a whir with Gregson's words. He was not overly offended by what could be perceived as Gregson's intrusion into his and Joan's personal lives, as he truly believed that Gregson was being honest about his reasoning, and that his intentions were genuine.

"I'm saying that she needs stability now. More than ever. She needs support, she needs comfort, and she needs consistency" Gregson began, pronouncing each word with care. "What she does not need is confusion. She has enough of that going on right now. After what she's been through, she needs to be able to relax, to breathe, to take a break. Adding to what she's going through already, no matter how good your intentions or how sure you guys believe you are, may be detrimental to her."

"You're saying I am hurting her?" Sherlock asked, his voice unable to conceal the pain her felt at uttering those words. "Captain, I assure you, I-"

"I know you would never intent to, Holmes" Gregson responded, raising an open-palmed hand in a defensive gesture. "I know you care about her deeply. More than you understand, and more than you can describe. I also know that you're aware of just how vulnerable she is right now."

"I would never take advantage of her-"

"I know" Gregson stated with conviction. "You would never intend on taking advantage. You've taken advantage of her abilities before now, in the beginning of your partnership. But since getting to know her, respecting her, you have done everything in your power not to. But the thing is, we all do it, even to the people we care about. Without realising it, we gain from them. We take from them what we believe we need, what they are willing to give. Usually, one of those people, usually the giver, realises that they are unable to continue doing so, because of what it is doing to them. But Joan is not one of those people" the Captain continued, watching Sherlock as he continued to speak. "She will give you everything, at the expense of herself. I don't mean romantically. I don't believe she would give herself to you in that sense, not if it wasn't what she truly wanted. What I am saying is that she needs time to recover before she is able to make that kind of decision. She is the giver, Sherlock. And she needs to stop. She needs to focus on herself right now, and the only way she can do that is with your help."

"I am helping her, Captain" Sherlock began in a sombre tone. "I am doing everything I am capable of to ensure that she feels able to deal with what she has been through. And I believe it is working. She has recently began to open up about... about the incident. She is making progress. But these things take time."

"Exactly" Gregson stated amiably. "She needs time, Holmes. She needs to focus on herself right now, not on anyone else. Certainly not on something as huge as a change in your relationship" he continued, watching Sherlock with interest. "Do you get where I'm coming from? I don't wanna intrude or cause problems, I just-"

"I understand, Captain. And I am grateful for your consideration, of myself and of Watson." Sherlock began, speaking in a soft, low tone which he did not recognise. "And I... I believe you may be right. She is uncertain of what it is that she would like, and it is important that this subject is subordinated to her own health and well-being. But I cannot help but think that the two may be linked."

"Whaddaya mean?" Gregson asked.

"I am concerned that it is too late" Sherlock stated simply. "And that, whatever happens between us, will not alter what has already happened."

"You mean... you guys have-"

"No" Sherlock stated simply, drumming his fingers on his thigh as he spoke. "No, Watson and I share quite another type of intimacy. It is something which, before tonight, I believed that she wished to develop further. But she is clearly uncertain, and I made it clear that I had no intention of doing anything to influence her desires, or make her feel uncomfortable."

"That's because you care about her, Sherlock." Gregson stated simply. "And to put another person before yourself. Especially for _you_ to be able to do that" he stated, the latter part of his statement uttered in a slightly lighter tone. "Speaks volumes about how you feel about her." Sherlock did not respond to this statement, but simply considered the words for a few moments as they swam in his mind. Discussing this matter with Gregson felt incredibly surreal, and yet, the Captain was usually the one who acted as his moral-compass, the angel on his shoulder, in all issues Joan-Watson.

"I do not wish to influence her decision either way, Captain. It is something she must decide upon by herself."

"I agree, Sherlock, in the long term" he stated cautiously, which attracting Sherlock's attention. "But for now, the best thing you can do for her, if you truly care about her, is make sure she focuses on herself."

"You're telling me to push her away."

"I'm telling you that she needs protection. And that to protect her, emotionally and physically, some distance may be necessary."

"Physically?" Sherlock asked, turning towards Gregson and eyeing him with curiosity.

"The danger she was in tonight was because of her role as an investigator. It is what we rather callously refer to as an 'occupational hazard'" he began, before proceeding with caution. "Her relationship with you does put her in an increased amount of danger. Being your associate, someone who is close to you, makes her a prime target. For the work you both do, and for you. But if your relationship were to turn romantic, and your enemies were to find out, she would be in even more danger. She would be an even greater target. But, as I said, this is a decision for you and her, and nobody else's. I just... as a friend, as your friend and as hers, I am concerned. Due to her recent experiences, and to her current state, we need to minimise any and all risks to her safety. Not increase them."

"You believe that being romantically involved with her could kill her?"

"I believe that being romantically involved with her, at this time, considering her current well-being and the threats to both your lives, could destroy you both." Gregson continued to speak in a kind and gentle tone, but with the unmistakable air of authority and caution. "I understand how you feel about her, Holmes. I know how you-"

"No, Captain" Sherlock stated, his voice adopting a slightly more pained edge than before. "I am quite certain that you do not." He paused for a moment, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply, before re-opening them and continuing to address Gregson. "I appreciate your concern, Captain, and I want you to know that I have listened and considered all that you have said. I understand your concerns, and will devote closer consideration to them." He stated simply, before turning and walking from the office. Gregson watched him for a few moments, before leaning tiredly against his desk. He spent the next few minutes running over their conversation in his head, and wondering whether he had done the right thing.

Sherlock walked straight from the office to the small room where Joan and Bell had been talking. He peered through the glass panel in the door and, after ascertaining that they were not sitting down and discussing the event, opened the door and glanced around. He was slightly surprised to find that only Detective Bell remained in the room.

"Where's Watson?" he asked, his voice calm and his expression impassive.

"We just finished. She headed to the bathroom, I think" Bell replied, lifting his head from a file he was reading. Sherlock nodded in appreciation, before leaving the room and walking towards the bathrooms. He paused just outside of the ladies' for a moment, considering what he was planning on saying or doing, before the sound of a pained gasp drew his attention to the door. He pushed it open immediately, stepping inside a moment later, and found himself face to face with Joan, whose was holding a thick wad of tissues over her arm, which had once again bled through the bandage.

"It's fine, Sherlock" she said placatingly, watching as his eyes widened as he slowly approached her. "I'm fine."

"No" he replied in a low tone, pressing the tissues gently onto her arm, applying pressure as she gazed up to face her, their eyes meeting once more. "You're not."


	8. Chapter 8

Joan watched Sherlock for a few moments, completely bewildered as to why he was gazing at her shoulder with wide, frightened eyes. This look only lasted for a moment, before his expression was once more impassive and indifferent, and his eyes rose to meet her own.

"Sherlock?" she asked, calling him from his thoughts. Joan adjusted her grasp on the tissues that she was pressing to her shoulder as she continued to watch him with concern. "What is it?"

"Do you require assistance?" he asked, ignoring her question. Joan felt her chest tighten at this response, as the familiar edge of painful formality entered his voice. Although he was being kind and compassionate, and undoubtedly wanted to help her, the boundaries between them which they had just so recently eroded had begun to resurface. She wondered why.

"Thank you, I'm fine" she stated, dropping her gaze from his and dropping the bloodied tissue into the toilet, before wetting some more and cleaning up her shoulder. "I had a feeling this might happen, these kind of injuries tend to bleed a lot. I bought some extra bandages just in case."

"Yes" Sherlock stated simply, his eyes adopting an unusually vacant expression as he watched her tend to her injury. "And you are quite certain that you do not require-"

"Yes" she replied gently, raising her eyes to meet his. Whatever he was concerned about, whatever it was that had disturbed him, was something which she knew that he would not be rushed into discussing with her. Joan knew that the best thing she could do to ensure that he felt able to talk openly with her was to assure him that she was alright. It took more than a verbal statement, though. He would need to be shown. And he would be. "Really, there's more damage done to my blouse than my arm" she stated, giggling slightly at the end of her statement. Sherlock did not respond verbally, but simply nodded, and continued to move between clenching his fists and drumming his fingers on his thigh as he watched her bandage her arm. It was awkward and fairly tricky, and took her a couple of minutes, but she managed it perfectly well. In the time it took her to do this, two female officers had entered the bathroom and observed the scene with confusion and concern, but were instantly reassured when they realised who the bleeding woman and out-of-place man were. Joan looked up at them and offered them a polite smile as they entered, nodding reassuringly to them, which alleviated their remaining concerns.

As Joan secured the bandage to her arm, and pulled her shirt closer to her before doing up the buttons, she faced Sherlock once more, watching as he shuffled awkwardly on the spot, glancing around the room as she dressed herself. She wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or concerned by this action. He had seen her in a similar manner of undress, in the same circumstances, less than twelve hours before, and had acted incredibly maturely and chivalrously. His apparent aversion to her now utterly perplexed her. Instead of addressing the issue immediately, she decided to try a different approach.

"Were you looking at me for some reason, Sherlock?" she asked gently, which drew his eyes to her own. "Or are you in the habit of visiting ladies' bathrooms?" Sherlock turned to face her directly, staring into her eyes as she did up the final couple of buttons on her blouse, and pulled her fitted jacket over her, completely covering her injury. Visually, at least.

"Yes, Watson, I was looking for you" he began, his voice low and husky. He watched her for a few moments as she moved some of the medical supplies she had used from the sink and placed them into a bin. She moved a piece of hair behind her ear and then turned to face him, crossing her arms across her chest and watching him with a warm expression which failed to ease his discomfort. Sherlock drummed his fingers against the side of his leg as he and Joan stood opposite each other, just a couple of feet apart, in the silence of the bathroom, which smelt of bleach and cheap perfume. Sherlock continued to stare at her with uncertainty, as he was struck by the realisation that he had no idea of what he wanted to say to her. After his conversation with Gregson, he felt an indescribable, almost innate need, to be close to her. After what the Captain had said about the risks to her well-being, the danger she was in, and the threat which a romantic relationship between them posed to her happiness, Sherlock needed to see Joan. To be close to her, to consider the evidence for himself. But now, as he stood before her, the words of the Captain running through his head, on a painfully accurate and persistent loop, he found himself completely overwhelmed by his inability to speak, or to deal with the situation. He wanted to ask her dozens of questions, but was unable to pose a single one of them.

"Sherlock?" she asked, uncrossing her arms and tilting her head slightly to observe it. "It's alright" she added placatingly, taking a step closer to him. As she did so, Sherlock inhaled deeply, and stood up in a straighter and more rigid fashion. He was clearly uncomfortable, and Joan wished to comfort him, to reassure him. But she was not quite sure of how to do so. It was difficult to know how do help him when she did not know what the problem was. At first she had assumed that the sight of her in distress, and the fact that her life had been threatened once more, had frightened him. It would certain explain his current behaviour, and his inability to deal with the situation. But what this did not explain was Sherlock's clear confusion. After the past few days, they had been discussing their feelings and their relationship, and the things which they had been struggling with, in a much broader and open manner than they ever had before.

"Are you happy, Watson?" he asked, rising his eyes to meet hers, as he spoke in a voice which sounded like an echo of his own. She was not expecting that. Joan watched him for a few moments, staring into his large, wide eyes as he flexed his fingers, before drumming them on his thighs once more.

"Happy?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

"It is not rhetorical, Watson. I am not trying to trick you" he spoke gently. "Are you happy?"

"Are you?" she countered, shifting uncomfortably on the spot and recrossing her arms.

Before either of them could answer the questions posed by the other, the door behind Sherlock swung open, and Detective Bell rested his head sheepishly on the door frame. After glancing around the room, and assuring himself that he was not intruding on any female staff or visitors, he began to speak. "Sorry to interrupt, guys. But we think we might'a got somethin'." Sherlock and Joan did not respond immediately to his statement, continuing to stare at each other for a few moments. Joan broke the silence first, removing her gaze from Sherlock as she drew her eyes to the ground, before looking up to meet the confused expression on Detective Bell's face. Bell was glancing from Joan to Sherlock, whose back was to him. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah" Joan mumbled, offering him a weak smile. "What have you found?" The sound of Joan's voice, and the normality of its tone, drew Sherlock's attention back to the current situation. He turned on the spot, placing his hands in his pockets as he stood tall, and watching Detective Bell as he responded to Joan's question.

"We found a possible connection between the three victims. It isn't solid, not exactly, but it's something" Bell began, glancing from Sherlock to Joan. "So, when you guys are... ready, come to the incident room. We'll talk you through it."

"We're ready, Detective" Joan stated, picking up her bag from the side. "Thank you." Bell nodded, and held open the door for the consulting detectives to pass through. Sherlock turned to the side, pressing his back against the sinks, to allow Joan to walk past him. As she reached him, she turned her head to face him, offering him a grateful smile. Sherlock nodded in response, his wide and glassy eyes unable to meet her own. Joan swallowed slightly, walking past him and strolling confidently to the incident room, where Captain Gregson was standing, hands in his pockets, facing the boards.

"Captain?" she asked, drawing him from his thoughts. Gregson turned on the spot, and removed his hands from his pockets as he found himself faced with Bell, Joan and Sherlock.

"There you are" he stated simply, glancing from Joan to Bell, before focusing his gaze on Sherlock. "Is everything alright?"

"Quite" Sherlock answered immediately, walking past Bell and Watson and leaning against a table facing the boards. "What have you found?"

"As we discussed earlier, victims two and three knew each other. Now, this may not seem surprising, as they worked in the same building. They ate lunch together occasionally, and worked together on a couple of business deals. What is interesting is that our third victim, who was employed by this company just a few weeks ago, was previously employed by Salacito and Deverly, a legal firm. Two years ago, our first victim, Melissa van Vale, occupied a high position at that very same office."

Sherlock and Joan took a few moments to consider this information, and found themselves amazed by the connection. Joan looked from Gregson to the three notice boards in front of them, which were filled with information on each of the victims. These three women who, as of a few days ago, had been almost unknown to each other, were now connected.

"So all three of these women have links, somehow. But not necessarily with each other" Joan stated simply, glancing from one board to the other. "A third party, perhaps? Someone who knew them all?"

"Yeah, it's possible" Gregson conceded, nodding his head as he crossed his arms. "We can't find anything else between these women. I mean, vics two and three had some connection, but it was professional, not overly personal. There is no direct link between these women and our first victim, but the fact that victims one and three are associated with the same company has got to be more than a coincidence."

"You are well aware of my opinion on _coincidences_, Captain" Sherlock stated simply, pronouncing the term 'coincidences' with disdain. It reminded Joan vaguely of how he uttered the word 'banker' on the night when they first danced together. Gregson nodded at Sherlock's response, shifting slightly on the spot, before continuing to address the room.

"Whatever it is that links these women, its both personal and professional. It's something that we missed. So we need to go back to the beginning. The clue isn't the companies necessarily, but the women. We need to look deeper into their lives."

"I agree" Sherlock stated simply. "The mistake we have made is by focusing on their lives immediately before their deaths. The answer to this mystery lies further back. For some of the women, at least." He continued, his eyes drifting towards the boards, glancing at the photographs of the women, before resting his gaze on victim number three. _Watson was so close to meeting the same end_, he thought, shuddering slightly at the thought. He was drawn from his thoughts by the familiar sound of Joan's voice, as she continued to elaborate on his statement.

"We need to go back to the women, not the work. They are the focus. Figuring out the connection between them will help us to understand how our killer chose them, and why. The sooner we find this link, the sooner we stop him. At the rate this guy is killing, we could potentially expect another victim within the next thirty-six hours."

"I agree" Gregson stated, his confident voice filling the room. "Let's get back to basics. Check the victims' histories. Their education, their employment, friends, families, associates. Look into their emails, diaries, social network and other online profiles. We have found an indirect link, but nothing concrete. But there is one, you can be sure of it. From the nature of the crime, and the victim profiles, we know that these crimes are personal. So we need to find the connection fast." Sherlock and Joan nodded in agreement, taking steps closer to the tables which held the files and evidence pertaining to each victim. "The ME says that the medical report of our most recent vic should be ready in about six hours. After that, we can discuss the similarities between the attacks, as well as the differences. Also, the PA to the latest victim is coming in in twenty minutes. We'll interview her in interview room four. Until then, we go over everything we got on our latest victim, alright?" Everyone agreed, and the team spent the next twenty minutes delving into the files of the victim. They looked into her finances, clients, business deals and connections, diaries, schedule, emails. But there was little time to go over these in depth before the PA arrived.

Maria Lennard was escorted to an interview room by a police officer, who spoke to the young woman kindly until Gregson, Bell, Sherlock and Joan arrived. Gregson and Bell took up their seats opposite the young woman, a tall, attractive though slightly meek-looking woman in her early twenties, with over-sized glasses and a vacant expression. She was dressed impeccably, and her hair was perfectly done, which gave the elusion of wealth and position. Neither of which were possessed by Miss Lennard. After the formalities and some polite conversation, including Gregson's most sincerest condolences, the young woman began to talk.

"Thank you, Captain. That means a lot. Alana – sorry, Miss Morentez, was a wonderful person."

"How long have you worked for her?" Joan asked kindly, clasping her hands together as she leaned against the wall. Her shoulder was aching again, and she was experiencing the familiar burning sensation which had plagued her throughout the day. She tried to shift her position so that her shoulder was pressed lightly against the cool tiles of the wall, which alleviated the pain slightly, but not much. Her attention was so focused on her injury and on the face of the woman in front of her, that she failed to notice the look of concern which Sherlock was placing on her. He was glancing furtively to the side, watching her discreetly, whilst he listened with interest to the response of the young woman.

"Oh, just a few months. I was an intern at the last place she worked in, and she asked if I would come with her. I said I would."

"Why did she leave her previous place of employment?" Sherlock asked, his voice low yet gentle.

"She... well, I guess-"

"This is a murder investigation, Miss Lennard. Now, I understand you wanting to protect your boss, and respect her memory, but you gotta understand that if you aren't straight with us, you're impeding our investigation. And if you care about your boss as much as you claim to, you'll wanna do everything you can to make sure we get her justice."

"Miss Morentez was amazing. She did pro-bono legal work for low-income families, and volunteered for several local inner-city homeless charities. She was very kind to me when I first started, very patient. When she left her last place, she asked me to come with her, and I didn't hesitate. She was very good to me, very kind. I can't believe she's gone." Maria glanced down at her hands, and began to chew nervously on the side of her cheek, a nervous habit which reminded Joan very much of herself.

"Maria" she spoke kindly, in a sweet and reassuring tone which drew the PA's attention to her face. "The best thing you can do to help Miss Morentez's family, and to honour her memory, is to assist us in any way you can. She was good to you, was she? Kind, compassionate?" Maria looked up at Joan with suspicion, before warmth and calmness swept across her features, and she nodded readily to her words. "Then show her the same degree of kindness and compassion. Help us to find out what happened."

"Alright" Maria answered after a few seconds, shifting uncomfortably in her seat before leaning back against the hard back of the chair. "What do you want to know?"

"Why did Miss Morentez leave her previous place of employment?" Joan asked tentatively. Maria blushed momentarily, before shifting in her seat once more, and inhaling deeply. "Maria?" Joan prompted gently.

"About four weeks ago there was this... there was a thing, at work" Maria began, her eyes resting on the table, as she clasped her hands tightly together and rested them on her lap.

"Go on" Joan spoke kindly, her warm eyes resting on the nervous young PA in front of her. Maria was clearly unsure of whether she should reveal the information which was playing on her mind. Joan suspected it could be something which reflected negatively on her employer, whose reputation she wished to protect. After a few seconds, the young woman continued to speak.

"It was late, about nine o'clock. Miss Morentez was closing a deal in Europe, and had been waiting in her office for the conference call. She hadn't eaten in a while, she was always forgetting to eat" Maria added absent-mindedly, a small smile warming her expression at the memory of her late employer. "Her fiance sometimes called her in the evenings to remind her to eat." Joan smiled, nodding at her to continue. "Anyway, the call hadn't come through yet, and I was catching up on some paperwork at my desk. When I saw how late it was, I asked if Miss Morentez was hungry. I was expecting her to blow me off, she often did. She said she'd eat when she got home. Instead, she said she was hungry. She opened her purse and passed me a hundred dollars, and told me to get something for myself too. I declined, of course, but she insisted. She was very kind" the young girl repeated, smiling once more at the memory. "I came back about a half hour later with some chinese food. When I got to the door of her office, I could hear raised voices. There was a man in there with her. I recognised his voice, but could not place him." She paused for a moment, chewing her cheek once more, before looking up at Joan, who was watching her kindly.

"What happened next?" Joan asked kindly, taking a step closer to the girl. Her shoulder was throbbing, and her voice had adopted a tired and slightly pained edge, which Sherlock picked up on immediately. "Maria?"

"The man said something about Miss Morentez thinking she was 'above everyone', which wasn't true at all. Miss Morentez was a wonderful woman, she really was. And incredibly humble. Despite her education, position and wealth, she was the least imposing person you could hope to meet." Joan nodded encouragingly, which gave Maria the strength to continue. "He accused her of being cold and unfeeling, and said that he deserved better. She told him that he needed to leave, that her PA would be coming back soon. He said something about not caring, that it didn't matter, that he would be gone before I arrived. He told her she needed to remember what he said."

"Then what?" Joan asked, her voice warm and gentle.

"Then he said that he would call her again, that he would be back if she didn't 'agree to his terms'."

"Do you have any idea what he was referring to?" Interposed Sherlock.

"No." She returned immediately, shaking her head for emphasis.

"But you know who he is?" Joan asked, drawing the young woman's attention back to her.

"Sort of" she replied, looking up to meet Joan's gaze. "He's an independent accountant who does the books for several companies, including the one myself and Miss Morentez worked at previously. He was odd, really. Good looking, smooth, but quite... I don't know" she stated, shifting her position in confusion, as she became frustrated at her inability to describe the man. "He didn't like taking no for an answer. He flirted with us a lot, the Pas, secretaries, interns. He was pretty... successful in his attempts. But not with Miss Morentez. I opened the door at that moment, and acted as if I hadn't heard what happened. Jake turned and looked at me, before turning back to Miss Morentez, and then walking from the room. He smiled at me as he left, like nothing had happened."

"Did your employer explain the incident?" Sherlock asked.

"Miss Morentez didn't mention it. I asked her if she was alright, and she just smiled at me. She said she was fine, and then started talking about the food. We ate together, but she barely touched hers. A couple of days later, he grabbed her arm in the hallway and turned her towards him. I couldn't hear what he said, but it clearly frightened her. She walked straight back into the office and stayed in her room for a while. The next morning, she told me that she had resigned, and asked me to come with her. She said that she valued me, and appreciated my discretion. I was grateful, you know?"

"And this man, 'Jake', does he have a last name?" Joan asked, her voice rising slightly. She had a strange feeling about this.

"Thompson" she replied instantly.

Joan's breath caught in her throat, and she shifted slightly in her position.

"Watson?" Sherlock asked, turning his body to face her. Joan did not address this, but simply continued to talk to Maria.

"Does he have sandy coloured hair and dark eyes? About six foot tall?"

"And a birth-mark on his neck, yeah." She stated simply, nodding as Joan spoke. "Why?"

Joan faltered for a moment, but just a moment. She felt panic rise in her chest, and her eyes widened in fear. She was only drawn from her fears by Sherlock's reassuring presence, as she felt the warmth of his body next to her own. She looked up at him, realisation dawning on him, as she nodded slowly to confirm his suspicions. She turned instantly from Sherlock to face Maria once more.

"And you're sure you don't know what they argued about?"

"No" she stated simply and with certainty. "Miss Morentez didn't mention it and I didn't ask. She said she appreciated my discretion and I wanted to make sure she knew that I would always be discrete. Working for her was a great opportunity for me, you know? I only graduated from college three years ago, and so I'm incredibly fortunate to have been given this opportunity. And Miss Morentez was... wonderful. Really, she was." She stated, her voice filled with emotion. "I'm sorry, I-"

"It's okay" Joan soothed, taking a few steps closer to her and balancing herself on the edge of the table. "You don't have to apologise for being upset. I can't imagine how difficult this must have been for you, but you've really helped us. And you've really helped her, too." Maria gave Joan a small, weak smile, and nodded slowly.

"Thank you" she stated, inhaling deeply before continuing to speak. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Take a break, Miss Lennard. I know this is difficult" Gregson stated in a calm and paternal voice. "We're gonna go outside and talk for a sec, so please, collect your thoughts, take a breath, and we'll be right back, okay?"

"Sure" she stated, clasping her hands together in her lap. "Thanks again" she stated warmly, directing her statement at Joan, who nodded appreciatively. Gregson and Bell rose from their seats and walked towards the door, passing through and holding it open for Joan, who was guided to it by Sherlock. She was acutely aware of the feeling of his hand on her lower back as he guided her towards the door. He removed his hand after a couple of seconds, much to her disappointment. As she passed through the door and stepped into the corridor, she felt more vulnerable and more alone than ever before.

"What is it?" Gregson asked immediately after closing the door. "Do you know this Jake guy?"

Joan sighed, before recounting her meeting with Jake, their subsequent date, and her own injury, to the puzzled-looking detectives. Sherlock remained silent and completely planted on the spot during her explanation, and was staring at the ground for most of her talk, whilst occasionally shooting her concerned glances. His face remained impassive throughout, though his eyes were wide and wary. When she finished talking, Gregson called a nearby officer over, and ordered him to run a check on Jake Thompson.

"And you think it could be the same guy?"

"There was a framed diploma for accountancy on his wall. He mentioned that he sometimes did some accounting work to supplement his income, but he said that it was not his primary profession."

"Did he say what was?"

"No" she stated simply. "He spent most of the evening asking about me."

Gregson and Sherlock exchanged a look, before the latter turned towards Joan, and began to speak to her in a low and gentle tone.

"Watson, I assume you realise that-"

"No, I don't" she stated defiantly. "This isn't conclusive. There is absolutely no evidence to suggest that he was the man who committed these crimes. I mean, we don't even know if it's the same guy."

"What are the odds though?" Bell asked, raising his hands. "The same nut-job accountant who threatens a woman, who ends up dead less than two months later, hits on you and then hurts you?"

"He did not hurt me, it was an accident, okay?" Joan asked, the mentioning of her injury making it burn with a deeper intensity. She was fairly certain she had bled through her bandage again too. "Besides, even if what you are saying is true, I don't fit the victim profile. So what would his interest be in me?"

"You're a well-dressed, attractive and highly-intelligent woman in the same age group. Your occupation is different, granted, but you still embody many of the traits associated with the victims." Sherlock began, his voice adopting a low and even tone. "Certainly with regards to the most recent victim. Kind, compassionate, maternal, taking the new girl under her wing and taking her away from the threatening man in the office. Everything about her screams 'Joan Watson'."

"No" Joan stated simply, shaking her head uncertainly. When Maria confirmed the description of Jake, and his occupation, she had been thrown. She had been frightened. But she could not believe that the same person who had been so sweet, kind and attentive, and who had reacted so fearfully to her injury, could be the same person who would inflict such injuries on other women. "Even if he is the same guy who argued with the third victim, there is absolutely nothing to suggest that he has any connection to the other victims, or that he committed these crimes." 

"We haven't looked for one yet, Watson" Sherlock stated in a simple yet gentle tone. "There may be more to this man than you initially believed." Before Joan could respond, a young male officer came rushing towards them, a sheet of freshly-printed paper in his hand.

"Jake Thompson, aged forty-two. Registered accountant" he stated, passing the paper to Gregson.

"Is this the guy?" he asked gently, giving Joan the paper. It was a print-out of the driver's license of Jake Thompson. The image of the man on the page was unquestionably the man she had dined with just over twenty-four hours earlier.

"Yes" she whispered, her knuckles whitening as she held the paper.

"He's got previous, sir" the officer stated, addressing Gregson. "Stalking, assault, and burglary." Joan's head spun at the words, and she felt her chest tightening.

"Watson, I-" Sherlock began, his voice low yet compassionate. Before he could finish his sentence, Joan moved past him, walking back into the interview room where Maria was sitting. She turned to face Joan, who walked briskly towards her, placing the piece of paper on the desk.

"Is this him?" She asked in an absent, emotionless tone.

Maria leaned forward, drawing the paper towards her with her left hand. Her eyes widened slightly, and she swallowed hard, before pushing the paper gently across the desk and replying to Joan's question, her eyes not leaving the image before her. "Yes. That's Jake."

Joan took a couple of steps back, stopping only as she felt the cold tiles of the wall against her back. Her shoulder was throbbing, and she was feeling incredibly light-headed, dizzy with the knowledge that she had just acquired. Her mind was racing. She varied between believing that it was a coincidence, that there was some explanation. A disagreement with a woman does not automatically make a man a ruthless serial killer. And yet, she found herself incredibly disturbed by the most recent turn of events. What if he was the man they were looking for?

"Watson" Sherlock stated, placing a hand on her lower back and leading her out of the room. "Come on" he urged gently, as she turned on the spot and followed him from the room. Detective Bell remained inside, and sat himself opposite Maria as he continued to take her statement. Sherlock closed the door behind them as he turned to face Joan and Gregson, who were standing in the corridor.

"Miss Watson, are you alright?" Gregson asked, his arms resting by his sides. "I know this must be a shock, but we gotta look into it. I'll pull this guy in and we'll talk to him."

"Sure" Joan said simply. "Yeah, we need to. We can-"

"Not 'we', Miss Watson. Bell and myself" Gregson began cautiously, as Joan's eyes darted up to meet his own. "If what we are thinking about this guy is true, I am not gonna put you through this."

"Captain I'm fine" she stated simply, her voice low yet confident. "I want to help."

"Being in the interview room would be detrimental to you and the investigation. It would be better for all involved if you weren't present. And I am not gonna put you through that." Gregson replied. Joan understood what he was saying, and was grateful for his consideration, but she was also battling a feeling of incredible annoyance. She knew Jake, she could help with the interview.

"I agree with the Captain, Watson" Sherlock stated gently. "It would be detrimental to you and the investigation. We can work on this particular line of enquiry from home."

"Home?" She asked, the word drawing her from her conflicted thoughts. "You want us to leave?"

"I want us to take a break. Go home, eat, look over the files and consider it from this new angle. When you are feeling quite able to, we will go over his file, and we can discuss everything that you observed about him. We'll work it from the personal angle, an angle which only you can work from. Alright?"

Joan was too tired and confused to argue, and knew that to do so would be futile. And if she was being perfectly honest, she saw the logic in what they were saying. The investigation would be better assisted if she did help Sherlock from home, and they discussed the personal angle. She could offer a unique insight into Jake, and they both knew it. Sherlock also knew that she would feel more comfortable in the familiar surroundings of their home. He knew that this would be difficult for her, and was determined to do everything he could to prevent her from incurring any additional pain or torment. She knew this, and was grateful for it.

"Fine" she stated, pulling her jacket across her. "Shall we go?"

Sherlock watched her for a few moments, before nodding immediately, and exchanging a look with Gregson. As Joan began to walk towards the door, Gregson caught hold of Sherlock's arm, preventing him from following her. "You know that, if this is the guy, she could be in danger, right?"

"Of course I do" Sherlock muttered. "But I assure you, Captain, Miss Watson will be safe."

"I'm not doubting you, Holmes" Gregson replied, removing his hand from Sherlock's arm as Joan turned to look at them. "I just wanna make sure she is protected, alright?"

"She is." Sherlock stated, in a tone more confident and full of emotion than Gregson had ever heard from him. Gregson nodded, before turning from Sherlock and re-entering the interview room.

"What was that about?" Joan asked Sherlock as he reached her side.

"Much as you would expect, really" Sherlock stated, his voice adopting a slightly lighter tone. "The Captain informing me of something which I already knew."

"I see." Joan nodded, continuing to walk toward the exit. "Something about protecting the damsel in distress?"

"Damsel?" Sherlock queried, pausing by the doorway as he spoke. "I see no damsel. What I see is an intelligent, confident and highly-capable woman who has been forced to deal with more than her fair share of torment and pain as of late" he began, speaking earnestly and with great compassion. "What I see, Watson, is a person whose pain I will do absolutely anything to alleviate. I do not wish to be condescending, or to do you any injustice. I have the greatest faith in and highest opinion of you and your capabilities, and you well know. But after everything we have seen, everything we have experienced, I think it is important to admit that we each, on occasion, require the intervention of the other."

Joan watched him for a moment, holding his gaze as she considered his words. She was more grateful and more understanding of her intentions than she could ever express. Despite feeling sure that she could handle the situation, she understood what he was saying. But more than anything, she appreciated the sentiment.

Neither of them spoke for several moments, and neither of them broke the gaze of the other. But after about thirty seconds or so, Joan lowered her head slightly, nodding briefly before looking back up at him. "Thank you" she said simply, placing one hand comfortingly on his arm, and squeezing it gently. "Thank you." They stood like this for a couple of seconds, before Joan removed her hand from his arm, and walked out of the precinct. The feeling that he experienced at the departure of her hand matched how Joan felt earlier in the day when he removed his hand from her lower back. He found himself completely overcome by an indescribable sensation of loss and discomfort which almost took his breath away. He was only drawn from his own feelings of sadness and longing by Joan's voice, as she called his name from the street.

"Sherlock, are you coming?"

He turned to face her, nodding immediately, before following her from the building.

Sherlock and Joan arrived back at the brownstone twenty minutes later, arriving just minutes before the courier sent by Gregson with copies of the most recent police files on the third victim, and on Jake Thompson. Sherlock answered the door, receiving the files and taking them back into the living room, where Joan was seated on the red couch. He entered quicker than she had anticipated, and found her with her hand clamped firmly to her injured shoulder. She removed her hand as soon as he entered the room, but knew that her denials were useless.

"Are you still in pain, Watson?" Sherlock asked, placing the files on the floor in front of her and taking up a seat beside her. Joan was facing forward, but tilting her head to face him as she spoke.

"I'm fine" she spoke in her usual tone, offering Sherlock a weak smile. She leaned forward and reached for a file, before hissing in pain and releasing her grip on it, causing the file to fall to the floor, images of Jake spilling out onto the floor. Sherlock moved closer to Joan, placing one hand on her arm and the other on her waist, drawing her onto the sofa.

"I'm fine" she mumbled, removing her hand from her shoulder.

"You're not" Sherlock replied. Joan removed her arm from her shoulder and looked up at him, his words reminding her of their previous conversation. She looked at him for a moments, her eyes revealing her tiredness and her confusion, as she sighed.

"Take off your jacket, Watson" Sherlock stated, meeting her gaze as he moved closer to her. As she shrugged off her fitted jacket, Sherlock kicked the pictures of Jake back into the file, hiding them from view. By the time he looked back towards Joan, he found her reaching for her bag, which lay on the floor by her feet. "Allow me" he stated, bending down to pick it up. As he did so, Joan drew one of her legs onto the couch, placing it beneath her, before turning her body to face Sherlock. He passed her the bag and she thanked him, before opening it up and extracting some medical supplies.

"I should get a loyalty card for A&E" she smiled tiredly, as she moved her hair away from her shoulder, which revealed that the blood has sept through the bandage and her shirt, saturating it in a deep red liquid.

"It may be necessary if you lose any more blood, Watson" he stated simply, as she passed him the supplies. "May I?"

"Of course" she stated, undoing the first few buttons of her blouse and pulling down her sleeve. Sherlock looked away at this, and his coyness amused her slightly. "Everything okay?"

"Would you move a little closer, Watson?" he asked, as he poured some antiseptic on a wad of tissues.

"Yeah, sure" she stated simply, easing herself towards him. Her right leg was draped over the edge of the couch, her right one tucked beneath her. As she moved closer to Sherlock, her leg brushed against his, and her foot unintentionally ran across the bottom of his leg. He breathed in at this contact, and felt his heart race. As he looked up at Joan with wide, desire-filled eyes, he felt familiar feelings of longing. Before he could consider his thoughts further, his gaze drifted to Joan's bleeding shoulder. His gaze remained fixed upon this for several seconds, and he found that the image before him led to the words of Captain Gregson regarding Joan to come flooding back to him. The danger she was in, and could be in, if their relationship changed. He found himself considering this as he tended to Joan's injury, gently placing the antiseptic-laden tissues onto her shoulder, ensuring that it no longer bled, before cleaning the area around the injury. Within moments, he had placed a piece of gauze over the wound and wound the bandage around her arm.

As he secured the bandage to her, he ran his fingers slowly down her arm, until they reached her elbow, where he stopped. He was about to withdraw his fingers when he felt Joan's hand gently rest upon his own. He looked up to her face, which was inches from his own, and stared into her tired eyes. "Thank you" she mumbled, her whispered voice only just breaking the silence.

"Not at all, Watson. It was hardly-"

"I didn't mean the bandage" she began, her voice slightly more confident than it had been previously, but still retaining unmistakable signs of tiredness. "I do, I mean, of course I'm grateful, but... I meant for what you said earlier."

"Earlier?" Sherlock queried, placing the medical items into the bin near the sofa.

"At the precinct" she said simply, as she removed her hand from his, and allowed her hands to rest on her lap. She looked up at Sherlock tiredly as she continued to speak. "You were right. What you said. I'm grateful that you reminded me of it, and made me realise. But more importantly, I'm grateful that you said it." She stated, shifting on the spot as she attempted to stifle a yawn. "Sorry, I-"

"It's quite alright, Watson" Sherlock stated, as he moved instinctively closer towards her. He placed one hand on her uninjured shoulder, which drew her attention immediately to his face. She opened her tired eyes to find herself gazing into his wide, alert ones. She placed one hand on his knee, as if permitting him to continue. Sherlock then placed one hand on the middle of her back and drew her closer to him. She moved willingly forward, raising her leg from the edge of the sofa, and leaning towards Sherlock, placing her head between his shoulder and his face. Sherlock placed his right hand across her back, drawing her as close to him as he was able, resulting in her wrapping her right arm beneath his arm and across his back, and leaning further into him, their cheeks brushing against each other. She closed her eyes tiredly, relaxing into him. He then rose his left hand and placed it on the back of her head, before lowering his lips so that they brushed the side of her cheek. "I meant every word."

Sherlock and Joan remained in this position for several minutes, neither of them speaking. Joan fell asleep mere moments after Sherlock placed his hand on the back of her neck, his most recent words to her providing her with an incredible degree of comfort and reassurance. They were the emotional assurance that she required so that her body would allow her to rest. "Every word" Sherlock repeated, as he held her sleeping figure close to him. When he was certain that she was in a deep state of slumber, he leaned back against the arm of the couch, moving his legs apart and drawing her close to him. She lay across him, one of her legs draped over his, as the rest of her lay across him, her right arm resting on his shoulder, her head by his shoulder. Sherlock held her close to him, rubbing her back soothingly each time she stirred. She slept soundly and peacefully for several hours and, after a short period of time, so did he.


	9. Chapter 9

Joan lay asleep on top of Sherlock for thirty minutes before he too felt comfortable enough to join her in their slumber. Before allowing himself to fall asleep, he arced his left leg slightly and drew her closer to his chest, ensuring that she would not fall off the edge. She murmured satisfactorily in her sleep at this action, shifting her head slightly and nuzzling against his cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes at this contact, inhaling deeply and trying to control himself. Joan's right arm was draped across his chest, with her hand resting upon his shoulder. Her right leg was resting over the bottom of his left one, which he had used to draw her close to him. Sherlock remained perfectly still for a few moments, to make absolutely sure that his attempts to provide her with physical comfort and stability had not roused her, before allowing his body to relax. Sherlock rested his right hand protectively on Joan's lower back, her long, dark hair brushing his fingertips. As he gazed down upon her sleeping figure, he noticed how perfectly calm and peaceful she appeared. Her current state was completely different to how frightened and traumatised she had appeared just an hour before. Despite her best attempts at concealing her fear, Sherlock recognised the pain in her eyes, and the terror in her features which she was trying to bury.

At the memory of her previous state, he found himself once more recalling the words of Captain Gregson, who had cautioned him about any potential developments in the relationship between himself and Joan. Sherlock looked down upon her once more, fixing his glare upon her serene expression. Was she as fragile as the Captain had portrayed? And would a shift in the dynamic of their relationship place her in more danger? He did not know. But he was determined to analyse the evidence and come to a firm conclusion before acting further. He would not risk the physical or emotional well-being of Joan Watson. He cared about her far too much. Sherlock found himself overwhelmed by these thoughts and, in an attempt to escape them temporarily, closed his eyes. He had intended on thinking the events over, considering the Captain's words, alongside Joan's actions. He would hold her steady and feel the warmth and comfort of her peaceful form as he considered how best to deal with their current confusion. Instead, he found himself both physically and emotionally drained, yet as comforted by her presence as he always was. Instead of contemplating the nature of their relationship, Sherlock fell asleep within moments, comforted by the sound of her light and gentle breathing.

It was several hours before either of them woke. Neither of them had realised just how exhausted they had been, and how much their bodies and minds had craved a temporarily rest from the pain of their current reality. As the dawn broke, the thin yellow light of the morning sun shone through the living room windows, dancing upon the features of the sleeping Joan Watson. Despite having been in a deep sleep, the moment the light entered the room, Joan's eyes snapped open, and she shifted her head slightly towards the window. Joan was unaware of her surrounding for a few moments, and felt dazed as she slowly came into consciousness. She felt herself laying upon something warm and comforting, something very familiar. But it was not her mattress. She could also feel her left arm pressed against what felt like a piece of furniture, and her right leg was draped across something, and hanging off the edge of whatever it was she was lying on. As soon as she opened her eyes, she used her right hand to push herself up to face the window; but instead of finding her hand resting on the familiar material of her duck-feather pillows, she felt something else. Something equally as comforting and even more familiar. Sherlock.

She inhaled sharply as she felt his shoulder beneath her hand, and drew her fingertips across his chest, as if to test if it truly was him, and not some dream-like version of him. As her fingers ran across him, she could feel his heart beating, and the rhythmic rising of his chest, which assured her that he was in a deep sleep. She sighed in relief at the knowledge that he was still asleep, and that he probably would be for some time. As Joan took in her surroundings and realised where she was, she remembered the night before with incredible vividness. She recalled Sherlock bandaging her arm, and she vaguely remembered leaning into him. All she remembered afterwards was how comforted and how calm she felt, and how she had experienced familiar feelings of weightlessness and ease. Joan remained perfectly still and silent for a few moments, her head resting in the crook of Sherlock's neck, as she stared absent-mindedly towards the unlit fireplace. The room was not completely dark, but it was certainly dim, with a few small lamps across the room combining efforts with the dawn sun to provide some light to the room. She moved her hand slowly and cautiously from its new position near her neck, running her fingertips across his chest once more and back towards his shoulder, where her hand rested in its now familiar position. Joan closed her eyes at this motion, finding herself reminded of the dance they had shared just over a week ago, when their bodies had been this close, their breathing this in sync, and their hearts beating together. She exhaled slowly, drawing her right leg slowly over his left, to prevent herself from falling to the ground. She was slow and cautious in her movements, desperately hoping not to wake him. As she moved her leg back onto the couch, resting her knee against his, their calves pressed against each other, she felt the first signs of movement from him. She tensed slightly, and her heart began to beat faster, as she looking down at the sleeping figure of her companion.

Sherlock remained asleep, and his face bore the same look of peace and contentment which had graced Joan's features just a few minutes before. Instead of waking, Sherlock simply moved his left leg, pressing it tighter across her. It was a reflex action, she believed. Something which he was probably not even aware of doing. _He's stopping me from falling_, she thought, a small smile playing on her lips. Her eyes softened at this thought, as she continued to watch him sleep. It felt as though she were intruding somehow. She so very rarely saw him asleep. It was something which she found to be incredibly interesting, from both a personal and medical perspective. Sherlock's body was completely still, and his eyes were firmly closed, and yet, there was still a remarkable appearance of intelligence and capability which graced his countenance. Even when he was unconscious, Sherlock's genius and the very essence of his being shone through him. Joan's warm eyes watched him for several minutes, as her features adopted the appearance of complete contentment.

She didn't know how long she watched him as he rested, but after what she believed to be a short period of time, her smile faltered. The corners of her mouth fell, and her eyes adopted a glassy, weary expression. _I can't do this_ she thought to herself, as she felt his heart beating against her own. _We can't do this_. Slowly, and very reluctantly, Joan drew her hand from Sherlock's shoulder, and pushed herself from the back of the sofa and across his body. She was slow and cautious in her movements, disentangling their legs and draping her left leg willingly over the edge of the sofa, until she could feel the hard floor beneath her heels. She allowed herself a final furtive glance at the sleeping face of her partner, whose breathing had altered slightly as she had began to move over him, and the hand which had been wrapped across her back fell heavily to his side. He made a low and gentle humming sound at this motion, causing Joan to pause for a moment, one of her legs resting on the ground, the other by his left side, their bodies pressed together. Her breathing increased slightly, and she closed her eyes to fight back the familiar feelings and sensations which were sweeping over her body. She pursed her lips together, before removing herself from Sherlock's body in one smooth and deliberate movement. Joan pressed her hands on each side of the couch to balance herself as she slowly withdrew her body from his, and found herself standing by his side, looking over him once more as he slept.

It was only at this point in time that she realised how cold it was. Or, at least, how cold she felt. She was only wearing her thin blouse, having discarded her jacket at some point in the night. She scanned the room briefly, locating the article within moments. It was lying on the floor next to her red jumper and a small pile of blankets which were often either folded in a neat pile, or sprawled across the couch. Joan shifted slightly in her position, the cool morning air refreshing her slightly, as she found herself coming around slowly. She wrapped her arms across her chest in an attempt to warm herself, hugging herself tightly in a vain attempt to replicate the comfort which she had just reluctantly torn herself away from. As she watched his sleeping figure for a few moments, she found herself wondering if he was feeling cold too. Without any thinking or degree of premeditation, Joan found herself walking towards the stack of blankets near the window, and selecting the thick blue one which Sherlock often favoured. She shook it in the air, opening it completely, before slowly approaching the sleeping figure on the couch. As Joan leant down and draped the blanket across him, tucking it in against the side of the couch to prevent it from falling from him, she found herself staring in awe at how peaceful he appeared, and how serene his expression was. _If only he could experience such peace and tranquillity always_, she mused, as she stood up straight once more and took a few steps away from him. Her eyes softened at the sight before her, but she found herself fighting the confusing feelings which had entered her mind.

Despite now being wide awake and very conscious, she was desperately fighting the urge to pull the blanket aside, resume her position on top of him, and cover them both in the blue material, shielding them from the people and the scenes and the experiences they were currently facing. Joan turned her head to the right, and stared at the kitchen as she battled these thoughts. She ran her fingers through her hair, before allowing her hand to rest on her cheek, where she could feel the imprint of the material of his shirt etched into her features. She chewed nervously on her bottom lip as her fingers fell from her cheek, and she wrapped her arms around her once more. Joan allowed herself one final look at Sherlock, whose body had not altered its position ever since she regretfully left him. Joan felt her chest tighten at the sight before her, her heart racing, and her breathing becoming deeper and more erratic. She knew that she couldn't do this, she couldn't think like this. It was all so confusing, so different. So dangerous. _A run_ she thought, the angel on her shoulder whispering into her ear. With that, Joan walked quickly from the room, not daring to look back, as she ascended the stairs briskly, heading to her room to change into her running clothes. As her bedroom door closed behind her, Sherlock's eyes opened immediately, their bright and wide shape almost completely overshadowed by the size of his fully-dilated pupils. His eyes closed as she sighed deeply, rising his right hand, before drawing it to his left shoulder, and placing it on the spot which Joan's hand once occupied. He opened his eyes once more and stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.

Joan dressed quickly, throwing her bloodied clothes carelessly aside in favour of her new running clothes. Despite the pain which was radiated from her shoulder, Joan found the adrenaline which was coursing through her veins to be a powerful and satisfactory numbing agent. Once she was ready to leave, she walked towards her chest of drawers, picking up her phone and headphones, and selecting an appropriate play-list. She put her headphones on and turned up the volume as high as it would go, closing her eyes and sighing contently at the music, as walked confidently across the room and opened her door, creeping down the stairs and heading straight for the front door, which she passed through quickly, and without glancing back. The second she reached the top step of the brownstone, and saw the dim, early morning sky, Joan ran.

Inside the brownstone, Sherlock was lying in the same position he had been in for the past six hours, his body covered by a blue blanket, which had been carefully wrapped around him by Joan Watson. _A poor substitute_ he reflected, as he drew the blanket aside and eased himself from the couch, before crossing the room and standing in the same place where Joan had just so recently stood. However, instead of watching the sleeping figure of his companion, Sherlock was faced with a dim room, an empty couch, and a dishevelled blanket. Sherlock sighed heavily, dropping his head as he did so, before rubbing his eyes fiercely and walking through to the kitchen. He was not fully awake yet, and felt quite unsteady on his feet, which was not helped by the fact that his mind was racing and his heart felt as though it were about to burst through his chest. Sherlock walked straight over to the stove, picking up the kettle and filling it with water, before placing it back on the stove and watching as the water slowly bubbled. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he stared at the kettle, the steam rising and causing his features to flush slightly, as he remained planted on the spot. The feeling of the vapours against his face reminded him of Joan, and how her warm and steady breath brushed delicately across his face as she had slept. He closed his eye at the recollection of this memory, and found himself faced with a barrage of similar memories from the hours before. The smell of Watson's perfume, the feeling of her silky hair between his fingers, the warmth and strength of her body beneath his hands. _No_ he thought, cautioning himself against such thoughts. _This will not do. _Sherlock braced himself on the counter, his knuckles whitening with the intensity of his grasped, as he tried to force himself not to focus on the memories from the night before. But he could not help himself.

Even as he was now standing, and alone, he was certain that he could recall all the details of her body, from when it had been pressed against his own. Her curves, her muscles, her figure, he remembered it all. It's comfort, it's strength, it's security. Dismissing the memory felt, to him, almost as if he were dismissing how the contact which they had just shared was being banished from his own reality, and from hers. Although he knew that, objectively, to banish such memories would be the most efficient and secure way of attempting to prevent their feelings from clouding their judgement, this was not an objective situation. He could not think objectively, or rationally, or intellectually. The closest he came to this was calculating the angles between their respective limbs, or considering the shape which their bodies formed as they lay on top of each other. He considered her heart rate, her breathing patterns, the amount of times she shifted slightly before falling into a deep sleep. But he felt completely unable to think of anything else about the situation in a rational or constructive manner. Instead, he found himself immersed in familiar feelings of warmth, comfort and adoration. Like on the night when he and Joan had returned home from the ball, Sherlock stared at the kettle in front of him, trying vainly to think the recent events through, as the water in front of him went cold.

Joan ran for almost a mile without stopping, her senses heightened by the loudness of the music and the adrenaline which was driving her on. She felt more awake and more alive than she had in weeks, and was pushing herself as hard as she could to continue. This was her escape. Sherlock had his books, his memory exercises, his chat rooms, Clyde. She had her running. In an attempt to push aside all conflicting thoughts and confusing memories, she ran. Not from him, not from his adoration. But from the pain, torment and confusion which she knew that their actions could cause. Never had such a strong threat to their partnership been posed. As she permitted herself to consider her current situation for just a moment, she thought about the nature of their relationship, and of the different types of love. She knew that there was nothing which could compromise a solid friendship, a successful partnership, as much as romantic feelings; especially those which had already been indulged. Partly, at least. She closed her eyes briefly at this thought, her resolve almost faltering, as she pushed herself harder, running faster through the park. Her breathing was hard and ragged, and she felt herself tremble, due to a combination of her rigorous work-out and the subject which was currently plaguing her. Despite the fact that their partnership had always been unique, and almost beyond human description, there had always been certain invisible boundaries, which helped to provide it with a certain level of clarity. Although their relationship involved such levels of trust and openness which was often reserved for romantic partners, it had been, until quite recently, devoid of romance. Although there were times in which Joan had found herself considering him in a different way, or over-analysing a certain situation or event, she was always quick to dispel the potential of such a development in their relationship. Oddly enough, the fact that their partnership was platonic seemed to be its only consistent and certain feature. But after the past few months, and the events involving Mycroft, her kidnapping and his deceit, as well as the fall-out which she and Sherlock had experienced, those boundaries had become more complex, more fragile, and more fluid.

As she considered this further, Joan's attention was drawn from her thoughts and to her body. She had a stitch on her left side, which struck her with such intensity that she stopped running, and turned to the rails beside her, pressing her hands upon them as she rested. She pulled her headphones off and exhaled breathlessly, her heart racing as she attempted to steady her breathing. It was only at this point that she realised what she had been putting her body through. She had been running constantly for the past thirty minutes, pushing herself as far and as hard as she was physically able, in a vain attempt to block out her own thoughts. She paused, looking up and staring across the Hudson, as realisation suddenly dawned upon her. _What I just did to my body is what Sherlock and I are both doing to our minds, and to ourselves_. If they didn't get this sorted, if this was not dealt with, then the consequences would be more than either of them could bear. Joan breathed in at this thought, standing up straight as she pressed her palm to her side, trying to alleviate the pain which the stitch was causing her. It felt as though her body was being torn at, shredding from the inside. _This is what we are doing_ she thought, lowering her hands to her hips as she stood tall. _This is what is going to happen_. Neither of them could afford to risk their partnership, compromise what they had, or endanger the emotional or physical well-being of the other. And neither of them would. Joan closed her eyes reflectively, inhaling deeply as she summoned all of the strength which she could muster. She exhaled sharply, removing her hands from her hips and placing one hand back on her side, massaging her stitch as she began the long walk back to the brownstone, resolution and determination etched on her features.

Sherlock remained in the kitchen for almost an hour, reheating the kettle on the stove a few times, before storming across the room and throwing open the cupboard, selecting some cereal which he ate voraciously, as his mind was filled with thoughts. As he dragged his spoon absent-mindedly across the bowl, separating the remaining cereal into two equal sections, he began to think of Joan. Running his spoon through the vertical gap between the two sections of cereal made him consider the boundaries between them, and the defining features of their relationship. His relationship was something which, as he had admitted to her once before, he did not understand. The only thing which he knew, that he did understand and that he had complete conviction in, was that it _worked_. Despite the arguments, the conflict, the differences, their relationship worked. _They_ worked. Even now, he mused, amongst all the confusion, they were working. They were able to comfort, console and reassure each other on both personal and professional levels. They were able to provide each other with the security and the comfort which they craved, whilst maintaining a highly successful and mutually-beneficial professional relationship. _It worked_, he thought to himself, repeatedly. Even now, amidst the confusion, it worked. The emotional side of him was telling him that everything was fine, that their relationship was simply pushing the boundaries which existed between all relationships of this type, and that an eventual level of equilibrium and certainty would be reached. Eventually. Or would it? Their relationship was unlike any other that he had experienced, or studied. There was no explanation of how it worked, no guide or deductive logic which would describe its progression. The variables were too many and too confusing, and impossible to be analysed.

Sherlock continued to draw the spoon along the gap between the two equally-sized cereal portions, before allowing the spoon to rest in the centre, as his hand froze at his own thoughts. He stared blankly into the bowl for a few moments, tilting his head curiously to one side, before raising the spoon a couple of inches above the gap. Sherlock then placed the spoon back into the bowl, and began to stir the cereal once more, dispersing it all so that it mixed together, with both halves now completely mixed up, totally indistinct. He allowed the spoon to fall from his fingers into the bowl, causing a small sound which drew him from his thoughts. Sherlock's intelligent eyes darting curiously across the contents of the bowl, as his head moved slightly with his vision, before he pressed his hands upon the table in frustration. He was unable to bear the current levels of confusion, or uncertainty. Gregson's words ran through his mind in the same incessant loop which he had found himself battling the night before, which he found to be completely non-conducive to inspiring objective thought and deductive reasoning. Sherlock stood at the table for a few moments, staring down at the bowl, and exhaling deeply as he attempted to calm himself, his clenched fists resting by his side. After a few seconds he opened his eyes, and began drumming his fingertips against his thighs, before turning from the room and walking up the stairs.

Joan arrived at the brownstone ten minutes after this incident, the pain from her side being temporarily abated. She opened the door slowly and with great ease, hoping not to wake Sherlock. As she removed her headphones and her hat, and undid the zipper on her jacket, she slowly made her way to the living area, resting her head against the door frame as she glanced furtively inside. He wasn't on the couch. The blue blanket which she had wrapped him in lay discarded on the floor, and the cushions which had just held him were still in place, but he was not there. For a moment, she considered whether this was sigh, some kind of signal which urged her not to continue, not to address the issue with him now, and not to do it directly. But as she walked through this room and towards the kitchen, before descending the stairs and looking in the rooms downstairs, she knew that she had no choice. Joan made her way tiredly back up to the kitchen, resting her hands upon one of the chairs as she leaned against the table. She looked down at the half-eaten bowl of cereal which lay before her, and the kettle which remained boiled but untouched on the stove. The cereal in the bowl looked as if it had been stirred with such force that the enamel from the small green bowl could have been ripped from it. Sherlock was not in a rush, she mused, but was experiencing a degree of confusion and frustration which troubled him deeply. And she knew exactly where he went when he felt like this.

Joan put her hand in her pocket and removed her phone and headphones, placing them on the table next to the bowl, before turning on the spot and walking briskly up the stairs. Once she had reached the landing, she walked past the rooms on that floor and continued walking up the second flight of stairs, holding on to the bannister as she did so. Joan walked all the way to the top, which made her legs ache remonstratively at her exertion, reminding her of just how hard she had pushed herself that morning. As she reached the door at the top of the stairs, she rested her hand on it for a few moments, before pushing it open with feigned confidence. She stepped through the doorway, and found herself instantly struck by the comfortingly cool mid-morning air, which graced her. She stepped onto the roof space, and gazed admiringly at the tops of the buildings which could be seen from this spectacular height. Joan did up her zipper and crossed her arms, drawing them tightly to her chest, for both warmth and comfort. The roof appeared to be deserted, but she knew that it was not.

"Sherlock?" she called, in a confident a curious tone.

A moment later, the figure of her partner emerged from behind one of the apiaries. Sherlock watched her curiously for a moment, his arms resting by his sides, as he took a few steps closer towards her. Joan tightened her grip upon herself as she felt her heart begin to race, and her head spin with a combination of exhilaration and fear. Sherlock's expression was one of kindness and concern, which was highlighted by his actions. He removed his jacket as he approached her, holding it out to her as they stood just a few feet apart.

"You're freezing, Watson" he began, holding out the jacket to her. She offered him a small, grateful smile, but did not take the jacket. He continued to hold it in front of her for a few seconds, before tilting his head slightly and watching her with concern. "Watson?" he asked gently.

"We need to talk." She returned, tightening her grip around herself once more, as the bees behind them began to buzz with anticipation.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock watched her curiously for a few moments before responding. Her body language, tone and practically palpable apprehension told him all that he needed to know about the nature of the conversation she wished to have with him. Despite spending the past hour considering the very same issue, he felt utterly unable to discuss it with her. Not because he did not know what to say, or even what he wanted. Oddly enough, what they both wanted was clear, in the most primal and 'natural' sense. But what a person wants and what a person should aim for are two very separate things. The former satisfies certain needs or desires (both physical and emotional) for a time, but is problematic. After all of his thoughts and through all of the confusion, all Sherlock was able to understand, all that he was able to conclude, was that a romantic relationship with Watson was problematic. And he was the problem. He had come to this startling and rather unnerving conclusion shortly after arriving on the rooftop; he always found that the time he spent with his bees gave him a greater degree of complete, unobstructed and almost logic-defying knowledge and understanding. The force of the realisation that he did wish to be involved in a romantic relationship with Watson had terrified him, but before he had given himself a chance to consider it further, he found himself once more reminiscing over the words of Captain Gregson, in relation to himself and Joan, and how she would be placed in the greatest or dangers, both physically and emotionally, should their relationship cross those lines.

As he stood before her, his lowered hand resting less than three feet from her own, he found that he was understanding that the Captain's words had a greater degree of truth than he had previously given them credit for. She had once described him as a force akin to gravity, and had informed him that she was grateful for entering his orbit. As he stood before her, staring into her fearful and apprehensive eyes, as she tightened her arms across her chest, he realised just how much she would risk, and how much she had to lose. He would not allow her to become yet another piece of nameless debris, indistinguishable from everything else, which simply revolved around him, surviving solely in his orbit. Watson was not something to travel around another being, and that was something which she had tried to tell him previously. She was not an object, not a piece of debris: she was a star. And, like all stars, she deserved to shine bright. He wanted her light to be seen, to be shown, to have a lasting effect – for herself, for others, but mainly for her. He would not allow her to burn out. Not ever. He loved her too much.

"Of course Watson" he muttered mechanically, tossing his rejected jacket upon the bench by the apiaries, before turning to the side, and raising his arms to gesture towards the bees at the furthest end of the rooftop. "But first, you must come and see the newest additions to our growing colony" he stated, forcing a smile in her direction, before averting his gaze from her own, and strolling towards the apiary. Joan opened her mouth to speak, but found herself unable to do so. Instead, she tightened her arms across her chest and followed him across the rooftop, pausing a few feet from him as he stopped before the last apiary, which he looked upon with a level of pride bordering on paternal. "The latest of our species hatched late last night and early this morning" he stated, gesturing to them with a single hand, as Joan tilted her head forwards, leaning in closer, as she found herself completely engaged in a very familiar scene. "They are the products of our partnership, Watson" he declared proudly, taking a few steps back to allow her to move closer towards their bees. "They are the physical manifestations of our achievements. You should be proud."

"I am" she responded absent-mindedly, her wide eyes softening as she witnessed the incredible sight before her.

"Good" he stated simply, leaning back on his heels slightly as he drummed his fingers against his leg. Watson was being very quiet, reflective. He knew that she was simply waiting for a respectable amount of time before once more attempting to directly engage him in a conversation regarding the current status of their relationship. He also knew how he would have to deal with this subject when he could no longer avoid it with her. And the thought of this broke him, almost completely and irreparably. He prayed she would not continue.

"Sherlock-" she began, her voice hesitant and tentative.

"Whilst you were out, Watson, I received a call from Captain Gregson" he stated, ignoring her previous speech, and walking past her, back towards the bench, which was on the other side of the roof. Joan chewed her bottom lip briefly, before leaning up and standing straight, and turning to face him directly. She was preparing herself to talk, and had almost begun, before he continued to speak. "He informed me of the nature of the interview with Mr Thompson" Sherlock began, pausing briefly to allow Joan to process the information, before continuing, talking quickly and excitedly, as he often did when relaying such information. "He said that Mr Thompson strongly denies all of the crimes he has been accused of, and even denies those for which he ha previous convictions. In fact, he states that he has an alibi for the death of the previous victim" he paused briefly, leaning towards the bench and picking up his jacket, before slowly putting it on. He continued to speak, but did not look towards Joan as he did so. He could not bear it. "He said that he was on a date."

Joan's brows furrowed in confusion, before she nodded in understanding, and gazed up towards the sky, which was becoming cloudy and grey. She considered the possibility of rain as she addressed Sherlock's statement. "Based on the victim's time of death, it would have been possible for him to have killed her if he did so within thirty minutes of me leaving his apartment" she stated simply, crossing her arms across her chest once more. "He lives just three blocks from the crime scene, it would not have been too difficult, especially if he had access to the building and was known to her." She paused for a moment, realisation dancing in her eyes. "It would also explain the morning" she began, her voice low and full of apprehension. "He could have entered the coffee place with the intention of asking out a woman who he could use as an alibi, to ensure that he had a free pass. The media already knows that we suspect a serial killer, so maybe he figured that alibi-ing himself for one of the murders would clear him of them all."

"An interesting theory, Watson" Sherlock began encouragingly, but in a low and absent-minded tone. "But how could he know that a woman would agree? And how could he be certain of when she would leave?"

"When she would leave would not be the issue, really. He knew the victim, so he knew her working patterns and her habits. He has previous for stalking, so her would have known her routine. Whether I left at eleven or half-one, he would have found her, somehow" she stated, crossing her arms tighter across her chest. "I guess my accident cost her those last few hours" she stated sadly, chewing the insides of her cheeks to prevent herself from falling victim to the emotions which threatened to overwhelm her.

"Watson, no-" Sherlock stated, firmly yet with kindness, as he took a few steps towards her. For the first time that morning, they found themselves staring up at one another, in the same reassuring manner which defined their relationship. "I assure you, that is not the case. Nothing you did or failed to do led to this woman's death. Once our killer chose her, that was it. Besides, he could have asked you to leave at a certain time, or manipulating you into wanting to leave" he continued, before becoming aware of the affect of their closeness upon him, and taking a step back, much to Joan's disappointment. "It could have been two women we found this evening."

"Or it could have been none" she countered sadly, inhaling shakily. "I could have stopped this. I should have seen what he was, seen some signs of-"

"We aren't even sure of his guilt yet, Watson, so do not berate yourself so. Besides, you had no reason to suspect him, no evidence on which to base such suspicion." He stated, his voice softening, and adopting a tone which filled Joan with confidence and with hope. She recognised this tone as the kindest and most sincere one which he possessed. He seldom used it, certainly not in her presence, at least. But each time he did, she found her faith in both him and herself instantly renewed. She almost believed him, too.

"Perhaps you're right" she conceded, in a tone which revealed that she did not believe in what she was saying at all.

"I am" Sherlock stated confidently, taking a few steps towards her until they were just inches apart. "Watson, I assure you, you have done nothing wrong" he began, causing her to turn her head to the side slightly. She stared at the apiaries for a short while, and Sherlock noticed how she sucked in her cheeks slightly, chewing them nervously as she often did when she was experiencing moments of extreme distress. Without thinking, and without intention, he took a step closer to her, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly to his chest. The movement was sudden and expected for them both, and Joan found herself grateful for the comfort. Her previous concerns about her association with Jake were still present, but felt less oppressive and overwhelming as the strong arms of Sherlock Holmes held her tightly and confidently to his chest. She could hear his heart beating beneath his sweater, and found herself deeply comforted as she inhaled his familiar scent. They stood like this for a few moments, neither of them moving at all, as the humming of the bees was the only sound which broke the silence, and reminded them both that what was happening was real. Joan became accustomed to the humming of the bees but, after a few moments, the sound seemed louder to her, almost oppressive. She opened her eyes wide, turning her head to the side slightly, as she felt his heart beating against her breastbone. She felt tired now, very weary. But these feelings were almost completely eclipsed by the indescribably strong feelings of desire and romance which she was currently battling. Her close proximity to him was not helping her to keep these feelings at bay, and her knowledge of the conversation which they needed made these feelings seem painful. She was distancing herself from them, forcing herself to reject them, despite the fact that the pain it caused her was almost physical. Joan swallowed hard, before pulling herself free from his grasp, and taking a few steps back. She brushed her hair from her face and held her arms by her side, before staring up at Sherlock, whose arms were low by his sides. He was staring at her intently, his wide-eyes regarding her with curiosity and apprehension. They both knew what was coming, and they both wished to escape it.

"We need to talk about last night" Joan said, in a low yet amiable tone, which almost reflected her usual voice.

"Do we?" he responded immediately, his eyes softening as they adopted a slightly sad expression.

"You don't think we do?"

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, his eyes not leaving hers, as all the logical arguments which he had been considering, all of the evidence which he had analysed, and all the emotions which he had been experiencing, flooded to the forefront of his memory. Out of all of these memories, out of all of the words, those of Captain Gregson spoke the loudest. He remembered how he spoke about the danger she was in, and the increase in the threat to her physical and emotional well-being, should their relationship to develop into one of a romantic nature. _You care about her, Sherlock. And to put another person before yourself... for you to be able to do that, speaks volumes about how you feel about her... to protect her, emotionally and physically, some distance may be necessary_.

"I don't think that we should" he replied in a low and sombre tone, after what felt like an eternity.

"We have to, Sherlock" she urged gently, uncrossing her arms as she watched him with care and compassion. She knew that he found these things difficult, but the difficulties which they would find themselves facing would be tenfold if they did not figure things out. There were times when their relationship changed, when it faced new challenges and adapted slightly to meet them. But this was something else, something completely different, and altogether new. This was the greatest threat to their relationship, and to their well-being, that their partnership had ever faced. But more than that, it was the greatest threat that they as individuals had ever faced. As Joan watched him shift slightly on the spot, his chest rising as he breathed in deeply, she became aware of just how vulnerable he was, of how confused he must be, and of how much she wanted to protect him. "We can't keep ignoring this, and act like it hasn't happened."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his head moving from side to side, as his eyes narrowed at the pronunciation of the words. "What has happened?"

"You know what has happened" she stated in a dead-pan voice. "In the ballroom, the bathroom, on the couch-"

"Nothing happened on the couch" Sherlock stated defensively, his eyes lowering themselves from hers. She felt a slight tug at her heart, similar to how one feels when affected by guilt or a torturous pain. "We were tired and we fell asleep, it has happened before and I am fairly certain that it-"

"Not like that it hasn't" she stated simply, her voice adopting a kind and even tone. "It was different, Sherlock, you know it was. And I know you don't like talking about this kind of stuff, and I can only imagine how much you want to push it aside, dismiss it. But we can't. It has gone too far, and it has gone beyond something which we can easily dismiss or ignore-"

"We fell asleep, Watson" he repeated, his voice rising slightly, and adopting a tone which was somewhere between fear and mania. "That's all." Joan felt struck by his words, which seemed slightly cold and unexpected. He was clearly uncomfortable, and she knew that persisting whilst he was feeling this way would be counter productive. She sighed slightly, her eyes falling to the floor, as she felt him watch her with fear and caution. As soon as he had spoken, Sherlock mentally rebuked himself harshly. Gregson was right, and he knew it. The only way to protect her, to ensure that she would be safe, and that she would be happy, was to create some distance between them. But creating distance between himself and Watson was easier said than done. She was open-minded, moral and incredibly compassionate; she would do everything she could to empathise with him, and attempt to help him. But this was just what he did not wish to happen. If she began to empathise, she would begin to consider _his_ feelings, and the affect their relationship was having on _him_, whereas the attention needed to be fixed completely on her. _She needs to focus on herself_, Gregson had stated. And he was right. The only way to save Joan Watson was to push her away. And as difficult as he found it, as hard as it was, he had to do it. He adored her, completely and utterly, and he would not allow her to be another victim of his. _Collateral damage_, as Gregson has stated. She needed to be free, to be happy. She needed to be released from his orbit.

"Sherlock, I get that you don't want to talk about it" she began, her soft and gentle voice drawing him to her face, which was now staring at him with resolution and compassion. Exactly what he feared. "And the last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable. But you must see that this is not something we can keep running from."

"I assure you, Watson, I am not running from anything" he stated simply, shaking his head slightly as he spoke. "We simply have nothing to discuss. We were working on a case which required us to... adjust the boundaries of our relationship on a temporary basis. However, this was less temporary than we had believed. It had a knock-on effect, like dominoes, if you will" he stated, gesturing with his hands. "But I feel quite certain that last night was the fall of the final domino." He stated, his eyes lowering for a moment, before rising slightly to meet hers. Her face was impassive, and her body language was almost beyond his powers of deduction. He had wanted to push her away from him, but not completely, and certainly not with force or with cruelty. He was not sure of how well he was faring.

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, her tone low and uncertain, yet without the slightest degree of anger or disappointment. "You think that the... that how we felt, how we reacted, and when we reacted, is all some kind of chain reaction which was caused by a case we worked on?" She asked, her voice rising imperceptibly. She was staring at him expectantly, awaiting his answer patiently. Before he could respond, she continued to speak. "It was more than the falling of dominoes, Sherlock. And it is not something we can brush aside. I am not trying to coerce you into anything, I don't want you to feel obligated or like you owe me something, you don't. I just want us to discuss what has happened, because we need to figure it out." She watched him for a moment, unfolding her arms and allowing them to rest by her side, as she adopted a more confident stance. "Is that really what you think, Sherlock? That what has been happening is some temporary consequence or fallout from a case?"

"I do" he stated simply, but in as calm and as gentle a tone as he was able of using whilst retaining the fake conviction of his words, which physically pained him as they left his lips. "The evidence all suggests that-"

"Evidence? What evidence?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in confusion. "Look, I get it, I do. I don't find this easy to talk about either, and I am just as confused and as bewildered as you are. But please, don't dismiss this."

"I am not dismissing it, Watson, merely offering an objective interpretation of the facts."

"There is no such thing as an objective interpretation of _these_ facts." She countered, causing him to falter slightly, his heart racing as his mind battled with his heart in an attempt to respond. But she beat him to it. "What we felt was strong, and how we acted and reacted was... it was passionate it was self-assured it was..." she paused for a few moments, before selecting what she believed to be an appropriate word. "It was natural".

"Yes, Watson, I agree. It was a natural progression of our relationship based on the re-drawn boundaries established during the case that we were working on in the ballroom. But now that the remnants of that case have dissipated, we will be able to resume our normal-"

"Normal? There is no normal" she stated gently. "With you and I, with what we have, it is not normal, Sherlock. You must understand that by now. Our relationship, our partnership, is not based solely on negotiating boundaries, but on transcending them. When you would appear in my room in the middle of the night, or go through my phone, or make deeply personal comments, it did not feel awkward, it never did. It felt natural, it felt just... it felt right. It was right, it _is_ right. Those boundaries were never negotiated because the boundaries never existed. After those incidences, there were boundaries, sure. And we dealt with them, we either discussed them, negotiated them or evolved to meet them. What we did not do was avoid them." She breathed the last words as she looked up at him with concern, gesturing with her hands in her usual manner as she spoke. "Sherlock, we have got to a stage where we do need to question some of the fundamental features of our... of us. I am not saying we need to make some kind of decision, or even that there is a straight-forward decision to be made. What I am saying is that our actions, and our impulses, have been stronger than the boundaries which you believe exist, and which define our relationship. We kissed, Sherlock" she stated simply, watching him for a reaction. His eyes flickered with recognition for a moment, and his pupils dilated slightly at her words, but otherwise her remained perfectly still, devoting his complete attention to her. "We kissed, and we hugged, and we experienced levels of intimacy which, in all honestly, were probably greater than those which either of us experience romantically with others." She stated bluntly, watching as he appeared to flush slightly, which was highly unusual for him. "Sherlock, we need to talk about that. You must understand why."

"We were overwhelmed, Watson, that night. You were injured, and I... when we-"

"We've been overwhelmed before, Sherlock, and yet, in two years, we have never-"

"The kiss was just-"

"It wasn't _just _anything, Sherlock" she began. "It was not just a kiss. You and I both know that, we felt that. You can't rationalise something like this away, or shut it into a box which you place at the back of your mind. If we don't talk about this, if we don't figure it out, it is gonna have repercussions, it will affect us both."

"It will not affect anything if we do not allow it to." He stated simply, in the same low and sombre tone which he had adopted earlier. "It happened once, Watson, and since then-"

"Since then, we lay wrapped in each other's arms, bodies pressed together, all night long, on that couch."

"You were upset, I was trying to-"

"I know" she stated kindly, her eyes warming slightly. "I know what you were trying to do. You were trying to comfort me, to console me. But you usually do that with words or actions, and are almost always successful. You have never done so, or attempted to do so, in the way that you did last night."

"As I said earlier, Watson" Sherlock began, shifting slightly on the spot as averted her gaze. "It is simply the natural albeit unforeseen consequence of the case we faced a week ago. It has had a temporary domino affect-"

"If you dismiss this by rationalising it then we are not dealing with the crux of the issue. We need to-"

Before Joan could continue, the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing interrupted their conversation. Sherlock's eyes lowered themselves from Joan's face to his pocket, where his hand dove into instantly, extracting the device within moments.

"Don't" she breathed, her voice full of emotion, and in a tone which was practically pleading. Sherlock found himself, completely unwittingly, drawn to her face as she spoke that word. The pain, fear, confusion and anguish which graced her features surprised him so much that he almost dropped the phone to the ground. He knew that he was not being as successful as he could be at convincing her that they had nothing to discuss, that the romance which he could not fully explain but that he wished he could completely endorse and explore, was the one thing he had to reject in order to protect her. It was the ultimate sacrifice and, despite how hard he was finding it, he needed to continue. He had to. For her.

They stood for a few moments, completely paralysed, as Sherlock lowered the hand which held the phone. The phone rang angrily and incessantly for several moments, rudely intruding upon the silence and the thoughts of Sherlock and Joan, who were staring at each other with wide and uncertain eyes. Sherlock was the first one to break the stare, which he did as the phone stopped ringing. As it began to ring again, he tossed it impatiently to the side, where it landed on one of the jackets which he had discarded earlier, with a low and hollow thump.

"Watson, I told you about my feelings on romance, and on love" he stated, faltering slightly, and almost choking on the final word. "Nothing has changed."

"Yes, it has" she stated simply, in a kind and conciliatory tone. "When we were dancing there was... there was a pull, a draw, something stronger and more powerful than either of us have experienced before, with each other, at least" she began, watching him cautiously as she continued. "I felt it. And I know you did too."

"It was a dance, Watson. Dancing requires the participants to enter into a certain level of physical closeness and intimacy that they are not always accustomed to. It has-"

"And what about the kiss?" she asked tentatively, her eyes softening slightly at the memory. "It wasn't meaningless, Sherlock, not by a long shot. It was passionate, it was intense, it was desperate. We need to talk this through, figure it out, achieve some level of closure-"

"Then let us consider the matter closed."

"It's not that simple."

"Why?" he asked, a theatrical degree of bewilderment entering his tone. "Nothing has changed, Watson. Not you, not I, and not how we view our partnership, of how we work."

"You can't speak for how I feel, Sherlock. For how I perceive and interpret what has happened."

"Then how do you perceive it?"

"I don't know" she said simply, her eyes widening like those of a frightened schoolgirl, who was confronted by a teacher after having just been caught watching one child play a trick on another. "But what I do know is that it isn't something we can just dismiss-"

"It is, Watson." Sherlock replied, his hands clenching by his sides, as he continued to watch her with wide and alert eyes. "I believe that my deductions are correct, and that you will soon come to the same conclusion yourself. What has happened is simply a temporary consequence of a brief shift in the nature of our relationship, which we adjusted slightly to suit a case. As you said, the boundaries existing within our partnership are unclear, and are permeable."

"This is beyond boundaries, Sherlock. And this is beyond logic and reason and-"

"Not for me" he stated simply, his tone lower than it had been before.

"It's emotional, intrinsic" she began. "It's physical and it is-"

"Scientific" Sherlock stated. "A chemical imbalance."

"Imbalance?" Joan countered, her voice faltering slightly as she wavered at the final word. "You think what happened, what I felt, and what I know you felt too, can be dismissed as a chemical imbalance? A symptom?"

"Not a symptom, Watson, but a simple consequence." Joan was completely taken aback by this statement, and by what she perceived to be the harsh and unjustifiably callous logic he was using to 'explain' what was happening between them. She knew that he may deny that their relationship would change, but she did not expect him to deny how their recent encounters had affected them both. She had expected denial, she had expected an argument, but she had not expected coldness. Joan found herself incapable of reacting to his statement, and simply stared at him in disbelief. She felt as though his words had pierced her skin, and had physically pained her. She knew that he would deny romance, perhaps, but not the connection itself, or its affect upon them both. Certainly not so coldly, so harshly, and so utterly and completely.

Joan swallowed hard, before breaking their gaze, and turning her head to the side. "You're wrong" she choked, as she felt herself become consumed with emotion. She didn't understand why she was reacting like this, or what it was that was causing her to feel so completely and utterly out of control. She wasn't the type to just break down without warning, or to allow herself to become upset by Sherlock's cold and aloof nature. But there was something different about this subject, about how he was handling it. She didn't understand it, she didn't understand him. And she did not understand how, in the past few minutes, she could be made to feel so completely and utterly meaningless to a person she cared deeply about. Despite her confusion and her sadness, Joan was determined not to cry in front of him. In fact, she decided that she would not cry at all. Less than a moment after her final words, and before Sherlock had a chance to respond to them, Joan walked briskly past him, making straight for the door to the stairs, and passing through it. She heard the heavy door close slowly behind her as she quickly descended the staircase, and headed straight for her room. She felt hot, restricted, confined. She needed to relax, to calm down. As soon as she closed her bedroom door behind her, she began to remove her clothing, carelessly discarding it upon the floor, as she chewed her cheeks nervously. She walked from the bottom of her bed to her chest of drawers, where she selected a large towel and a bathrobe, which she wrapped around herself absent-mindedly. Joan's eyes were wide and glassy, and she was acting completely on autopilot, with no real understanding or awareness of what she was doing. She walked slowly across the room and towards the dressing table, before pulling the band from her hair, so it fell loosely about her shoulders. She discarded the band on top of the table, carefully avoiding looking at her reflection in the mirror, before walking quickly towards her bedroom door and throwing it open. She did not look to see if Sherlock was on the landing, she did not think of this, she did not think much at all in those painful few moments. Instead, she walked briskly towards the bathroom, locking the door behind her and depositing the towel on the radiator, before allowing the robe to fall from her tired and aching body. As Joan reached across into the shower and turned on the dials, the cold water which beat against her arm sobered her instantly, and she found herself now fully awake and incredibly aware of what had just transpired. She swallowed hard, battling to fight back both her memories and her emotions, as she took a step into the shower, before the water had heated up completely. As she allowed the water to soak into her hair, and cover her body in a cool and refreshing manner, Joan rested her head against the cold tiles on the wall, and wept.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and it felt as though his heart had stopped beating. As soon as she had told him that he was 'wrong', in that choked and sad manner, he felt his chest tighten, and his mouth go dry. He had been completely incapable of responding to her at that moment, even if he had known what to say. He did not. Her response and her pain had completely thrown him, and he did not know how to react. He felt a combination of unbearable guilt and incomprehensible confusion, and was completely unsure of how to act. He knew that his actions may upset her, and that his attempt to protect her emotionally and physically would have temporary negative consequences, but he had not anticipated the look on her face, the sound on her voice. It had completely broken him. Sherlock was so overcome by the shocked and pained expression on her face, something which he had not seen before, that he found himself frozen to the spot, utterly unable to move for at least five minutes after she walked past him and left the rooftop. He was vaguely aware of the sound of the heavy door shutting behind her, but otherwise found himself unable to recognise or take account of anything else around him, as he was completely lost in his thoughts.

Sherlock tried to run through their previous conversation in his mind, going over each statement he had made, and her responses to it, both verbal and physical. Each time he remembered her desire to discuss their relationship, and his attempts at dismissing it, he felt his breath quickening and his body becoming flushed and tense. He was not used to feeling this way, and could not interpret his current condition. He did not understand why he was feeling so strange, and he did not wish to. Each time he attempted to give any great deal of thought or consideration to his former conversation with Watson, the first thing he thought of, and the thing which struck him instantly and more painfully than any of his words, was her expression. The look in her eyes had been one of complete and utter devastation, and he had caused it. Despite intending to protect her, and to ensure she did not experience those kind of feelings, he had done the opposite. He knew that he may upset her, on a temporary basis, from which she would recover, but he had not expected this. But then again, with his relationship with Joan Watson, he suddenly remembered that nothing could be expected or explained. And he had been foolish to think that it could. Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration, rubbing his eyes with his hands, before releasing a deep and shaky breath. Before he could consider the events of the past few minutes further, the familiar sound of ringing and vibrating broke the silence. Sherlock turned to face the bench, where the screen of his phone was buzzing and shining brightly upon his discarded coat. He stared at it for a moment, before walking quickly towards the bench, and picking up the phone. As he did so, he stared absent-mindedly at the spot where Joan had stood when she implored him not to answer the phone. His eyes became wide and glassy, as he turned from this spot and checked the caller ID, before rising the phone to his ear. Joan Watson was not here now.

Joan spent two or three minutes crying in the shower, her head pressed against the cold tiles on the wall as she was covered with warm and comforting water. After about a minute or so, she clamped her hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle her pained sobbing, before releasing one final staggered breath, and calming herself. She pushed herself away from the wall and reached for her shampoo, lathering it in her hair and washing it out again under the water, as the warmth and heat of the shower soothed her aching body and mind. Joan did not cry often, but when she did, she found that she did it for short periods of time, and would feel much more relaxed and in control afterwards. She always appeared to be so 'together', so calm and so completely able to handle any situation that she was faced with. And she was. She did. By allowing her emotions to rule her for a few minutes, she was able to experience them fully, before vanquishing her despair, and working towards fixing whatever issue in her life was currently broken. As the shampoo and conditioner was washed from her hair, Joan turned away from the shower-head and opened her eyes, finding herself facing the mirror on the wall opposite the shower. The mirror was covered with steam and condensation, but small drops of liquid were trickling down it slowly, revealing the glass beneath, and showing Joan parts of her own reflection. She couldn't make out much, just her skin, parts of her arm, or a streak of her hair. Joan averted her gaze from the mirror, and stood directly beneath the water again, embracing it completely. She had always found hot showers to be a perfect way to unwind and to relax, and often came up with some of her best ideas and solutions whilst in them. It wasn't surprising, really: having ideas or solving issues which she had been wrestling with, whilst in an environment which provided her with such warmth, comfort and peace. In college, she had come up with a central argument for one of the papers she was writing whilst having a 3am shower which she hoped would help her to stay awake. She got an A.

But now, as Joan felt the warm water washing over her tired body, she felt no such ideas, no inspiration, and no hope. Her thoughts were divided between lamenting Sherlock's aloofness and apparent ignorance at the need to discuss their relationship, and her own self-condemnation at reacting so emotionally and so dramatically to it. She did not know what had prompted her to become so upset, to storm from the roof and seek solace in the shower. But what she did know was that it highlighted just how much their relationship had changed, and how it was affecting them both more than they realised. Joan's eyes flickered open at this thought, and she reached across and turned off the shower. She stood in the steamy bathtub for a few moments, until the coldness of the air around her drew her from her thoughts. She had been more affected by the changes in their relationship, and her inability to understand them, which had led to her acting in such a strange and unusual way. Perhaps that would explain Sherlock's actions on the roof. He was often aloof or blunt, but never dismissive. He did not discuss Joan's statements or her feelings, he simply tried to make them disappear, and Joan found herself wondering why. Why would a man who loves logic, and who thrives on puzzles, dismiss one of the biggest puzzles which he was currently faced with? Unless he did not see it as a puzzle. Maybe he had already worked out the solution, and was intent on concealing it from Joan.

Joan's eyes narrowed in confusion as she removed her hand from the dials on the shower, and allowed it to fall tiredly by her side. She inhaled slightly, before taking a few steps back and stepping out of the bath, the coldness of the room striking her with an almost physical force. She reached across to the radiator for her towel, which she wrapped comfortingly around her, and closed her eyes briefly in gratitude of the warmth. She wrapped the towel tightly around her, before squeezing the water from her hair and into the sink, and allowing her hair to fall across her left shoulder, draping itself elegantly beside her neck. Joan turned towards the mirror and wiped off some of the condensation with her hand, before looking at her reflection for a few moments. Her eyes looked tired and sad, but showed no immediate signs of crying, which she was grateful for. Joan moved away from the mirror and towards the radiator, allowing the towel to fall from her almost-dry body and wrapping herself in her white floral bathrobe, which was light and feminine, and which always gave her a renewed confidence boost. As she drew the tie around her waist, she moved towards the door, opening it wide, and pushing it to one side. Before she could leave the bathroom, she looked up to find herself facing the side profile of Sherlock Holmes, who was turning on the spot to face her.

"Watson, good-" he began, turning to face her. He allowed his eyes to travel down her body quickly, before shifting uncomfortably on the spot and turning his head away from her. Neither of them were particularly embarrassed by her current state of dress, as they had both seen each other in similar states before. But to Sherlock, seeing her in this manner felt almost like an intrusion. Or, at least, something which he did not deserve to be witness to. He had no desire to make her feel any more uncomfortable or upset, and was determined to show her that. He held her in the highest regard, and respected and commended her more than any other human being, even himself. And, despite the confusing and upsetting nature of their former conversation, he would make sure that she knew it.

"Ah, Watson, I..." he muttered, swallowing hard as his head dropped slightly, and he began to stare at the door next to the bathroom, as he drummed his fingers on his thigh and attempted to speak. "Captain Gregson called, and, when you are quite dressed, would you care to accompany me to the police station?"

"Why?" she asked, her tone relatively normal, which surprised both of them. She crossed her arms across her chest and ensured that her robe was tightly secured, before turning her head to the side and awaiting his response. "Has something happened?"

"It's what hasn't happened that is the issue" Sherlock stated simply, in a light and conversational tone. "The police have been interviewing Jake for hours, and he has so far refused to answer any of their more probing questions, thus impeding the investigation." Joan nodded slowly, acknowledging her understanding, as she considered how normal their current conversation was. It was almost as if the past twenty minutes had not happened. "So, in an attempt to speed things up, so to speak, Captain Gregson has requested that the PA's of victims one and three come in and see if they can identify them. Miss Lennard, PA to the third victim, has already identified him by name and occupation, but a visual confirmation would be beneficial. Gregson is inviting the first PA in on the off-chance."

"Makes sense" Joan stated simply, uncrossing her arms and placing one hand on her hip. "And he wants us to be there?"

"Yes" Sherlock replied, as he finally turned his head to face her. Her pose, her hair, her expression: she looked magnificent, indestructible. But he knew that she wasn't. "Do you feel up to accompanying me?" He asked tentatively. He was concerned that she may not feel up to going to the police station, and find herself in the same building as Jake Thompson. But he was also concerned that, if she did feel able to go, she would not wish to be in his company.

"Of course" she replied in the same simple tone she had used early. "I'll be ready in ten minutes". With that, Joan walked past him and towards her room, leaving Sherlock standing on the landing, staring at the space in front of him which she had just occupied. His thoughts were, yet again, only interrupted by the sound of a door closing behind him. Sherlock remained on the landing for a few seconds, until the sound of Joan moving about in her room penetrated the silence, and drew him from his thoughts. Sherlock walked slowly across the landing and down the stairs, sitting in the armchair in the living room for a few minutes. Sherlock was contemplating the events of the past hour or so as he tried to fix Angus, whose broken pieces of skull had become loose again following his use as a weapon against a would-be assassin, until the familiar sound of Joan's heels coming down the stairs drew his attention towards the foyer.

"Are you ready?" she asked pleasantly, as she selected a coat from the coat rack and drew it across her, before draping her bag over her shoulders. "Did you call a cab?"

"Yes, it should be here in just a few minutes" Sherlock responded, as he looked down at his watch. Joan watched him for a moment, noting how uncomfortable he appeared, and feeling oddly responsible for it. Despite her disappointment in him and his reaction to their conversation on the roof, she did not want him to be consumed by fear or dread, and she certainly didn't want him to be uncomfortable in her presence. So she decided to offer him an olive branch.

"Great, thanks." She began tentatively, before pausing for a few moments, before taking a few cautious steps towards him, and crouching down in front of him. She reached for the piece of broken porcelain which Sherlock was holding, and he released it gratefully, watching her face as she gently held it slightly away from the hole in the skull. Sherlock applied some more glue to the edges of the fracture, before Joan slid the small piece into place, pressing it in until she could feel that it was secure.

"Thank you, Watson" he spoke, in a low and grateful tone. Joan removed her hands from the bust and looked up at his face, meeting his gaze as she did so. They stared at each other for a few seconds, their eyes not wishing to leave the other, until the sound of the beeping of a horn drew them from their reveries.

"Taxi's here" Joan declared, pressing her hands on her knees and pushing herself up to her feet. She took a few steps towards the foyer, before turning on her heels and facing Sherlock again, who had partially risen from his seat. "Any time" she stated kindly, before turning again and walking through the foyer. Sherlock felt slightly calmer, as though a weight was being gradually lifted, as he walked through the room and into the foyer, selecting his own scarf and coat. He turned on the spot, preparing himself to open the front door, but instead found that Joan had already done so, and was standing on the top step outside the brownstone, and was holding the door open for him. He smiled nervously and thanked her once more, before they descended the stairs, Joan walking a few paces ahead of him.

They arrived at the precinct within ten minutes, and quickly entered the building. They were met at the front desk by Captain Gregson, who had been expecting them.

"Thanks again, guys" he stated, looking from Sherlock to Joan, who he watched with concern for a few moments. She gave him a look of confidence and conviction which reassured them both, and he continued to speak. "Miss Haren has just arrived, and we're about to take her through, she's just being interviewed. Miss Lennard is expected to arrive in about twenty minutes." He stated, before leading them towards the interview room where Jodie Haren, the PA to the first victim, was sitting. The door was opened and Sherlock and Joan stepped inside, and were met by the concerned gaze of the nervous young woman sat before them.

"I... I don't recognise the name, Detective" she continued, directing her statement at Detective Bell, who was sat opposite her. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright, ma'am" he responded. "But, as I've explained, if you could just take a look at him through the glass, and let us know if he appears at all familiar, that would be great."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you need." She stated, nodding repeatedly. "Shall we go now?"

Detective Bell rose from his seat and made his way towards the door, allowing Joan and Sherlock to leave first, before indicating for the seated woman to stand. "Please" he said kindly, standing by her side as he escorted her across the precinct and to another room. Sherlock and Joan followed them close behind, with Sherlock gazing around the precinct, before allowing his eyes to fall upon Joan, who appeared to be more nervous since they left the room. He deduced, correctly, that she was apprehensive over seeing Jake again, even if it was from behind a sheet of one-way glass. Although they had known each other for a very short time, Sherlock understood the initial shock associated with such situations. But instead of dwelling on his time with Irene, he found himself completely engaged in reassuring Joan Watson. As they arrived at the interrogation room, he took a few tentative steps towards her, breaching the five feet of personal space which he had accorded her since their conversation on the roof, and he stood by her side on the other side of the glass. And she was grateful.

Miss Haren was standing at the front of the glass between Captain Gregson and Detective Bell, and was gazing at the subjects on the other side. Sherlock and Joan were standing about a foot behind them, and were looking over their shoulders into the room. Sherlock watched the good-looking accountant with a mixture of anger and disdain, whilst Joan watched him with caution and wariness, and the utmost confusion. Jake was sitting in the sea facing the glass, so she had the perfect view of him. He appeared completely calm and at ease, and not the least bit perturbed about his current circumstances. His body language and demeanour did not scream 'serial killer', but there was something about him that made Joan believe that he was not all that he had originally appeared to be. And this frightened her. Not just because she had not realised it, or because she did not know what it was. But because she could allow herself to become close to someone who she had been so wrong about. She turned from Jake to Sherlock, who was watching the man behind the glass with wide and unblinking eyes. As she allowed her gaze to fall on Sherlock, and slowly drift away, she felt herself soften slightly. _Not the same_ she thought to herself, considering the negative qualities of both Jake and Sherlock. _Not even close._

"Oh my God..." Jodie Haren breathed, raising her hand to her mouth in a gesture which instantly attracted the attention of everyone in the room. "That's... I know him, I... how do I know him" she asked, allowing her hand to fall slightly from her lips as she tilted her head to the right, and began to stare down at the floor. "Yeah, he... wait, does he do some kind of job involving records?" she asked perplexedly, glancing from Bell to Gregson.

"He's an accountant, ma'am" Gregson replied cautiously, keeping his eyes fixed upon her.

"Yes, yes that must be it!" she declared gratifyingly. "I think I saw him around our offices... I don't know when, not too long ago. I think he was working on some files or something. But yeah, he is familiar. I'm sure I know him, I'm sure" she repeatedly breathlessly, before being thanked by Gregson and Bell, the latter who led her from the room.

"So, whaddya think?" Gregson asked, turning to face Sherlock and Joan.

"He's a freelance accountant, it's possible that he did some temporary financial work for any number of companies in the city. J&F Dynamics is a hugely successful and fairly prolific company, so I guess it's possible." Joan stated, before finally allowing her eyes to remove themselves from the handsome man behind the glass. "It's not conclusive, of course, but it's something. We can confront him with it."

"We?" Sherlock asked, turning on the spot to face her. Before she could respond, the door behind them opened, and Detective Bell re-entered, accompanied by another person.

"Hi, sorry I'm a bit early" came the familiar voice of Maria Lennard. "I had an interview down-town which didn't take as long as I thought it would. Are you ready?" She asked, swallowing hard at the last statement. Gregson smiled kindly at her, before leading her slowly towards the window, and speaking to her softly.

"Now, take your time Miss Lennard, alright? There's no rush" he began, ushering her to the front of the room. Maria's eyes were fixed on Gregson's face, and she did not allow her gaze to leave his. "Now, when you're ready, will you please look at the man through this window, and tell us if he seems familiar or is known to you?" She nodded quickly, before crossing her arms across her chest and turning to face the window. She inhaled sharply and audibly, which attracted the attention of Sherlock and Joan, and confirmed their suspicions before the anxious PA vocally affirmed them.

"That's him" she stated in a shaky voice. "That's Jake. The man who threatened my employer." She choked on the last word, and from her position behind her, Joan could see her head drop slightly, and one of her hands rise to her mouth. "I... I'm sorry-" she began, her words drowned out by a stifled sob. Joan took a few steps forwards and place a reassuring hand on the woman's lower back, and began to speak to her gently, whilst ushering her from the room.

"Hey, hey it's alright" she began, leading her towards the door. "You did great, you really helped us, alright?" She continued, as they passed through the door and into the busy, bustling precinct. Joan reached into her bag and picked out a pack of tissues, which she handed to the young woman, smiling at her warmly. Sherlock and Gregson had followed the women from the room, but remained a respectable distance behind, allowing them to talk with as much privacy as they could be afforded.

"Thanks Miss Watson" she responded in a shaky and uncertain tone. "I'm sorry, I... I keep thinking I'm fine, and that it's okay, and then-" she breathed in deeply and pressed a hand to her mouth, in an attempt to calm herself.

"You don't have to apologise for being upset, Maria" she responded kindly, in a reassuring manner. "And this, what you're going through, is a process. It takes time" she continued, as the young woman looked up at her with tearful eyes. "But you're going to be okay." Maria seemed unconvinced, but nodded politely, thanking Joan for her kindness and compassion. "Are you free now?" Joan asked, observing the disconcerted disposition of the young woman who had been through so much. "I was gonna go for a coffee run, would you like to join me?" Maria's eyes rose to Joan's, and her expression softened slightly.

"I don't want to intrude. I know you guys are working hard to figure out-"

"Caffeine is a wonderful stimulant which promotes hard work" Joan stated kindly, earning a small smile from the young woman. "Really, I'm off to get some now, why don't you join me? We can sit down for a while, and talk."

"Thank you" Maria responded after a few moments, nodding her head gratefully.

"No problem" Joan returned, before glancing up to look at Sherlock and Gregson, the latter of whom nodded to her appreciatively. Sherlock simply watched her with a warm and relaxed expression. Her kindness, compassion and ability to comfort those who needed it the most always amazed him, and made him feel incredibly grateful and privileged to have someone like her in his life. He watched her as she walked out of the precinct with Maria Lennard, who seemed more visibly stronger and more content in the past few seconds than she had done in their previous associations with her.

Joan took Maria to a coffee shop a couple of blocks away, which she sometimes went in to buy a bottle of water after jogging. It was a family-owned place which had been open for decades, and had the most reassuring and comforting atmosphere that Joan had ever come across. The coffee shop had light brown walls and dark oak furniture, and was owned by a kindly family from Cuba, who knew Joan by name.

"Miss Watson!" came the familiar voice of Steven, the son of the owners, who knew Joan's order off by heart.

"Steven, please, call me Joan" she smiled, holding the door open for Maria, who walked nervously into the shop. "This is Maria".

"Any friend of yours gets a free drink!" declared an older man from the kitchen, who had just walked out and was beaming upon Joan. The family were very fond of Joan, ever since she came into the store for a bottle of water about a year ago, just as their youngest daughter poured scalding water over herself whilst in the kitchen. She had screamed so loud that Joan had rushed into the kitchen and, after seeing what the issue was almost immediately, had sprung into action. She wrapped the girl's arm in cling-film and held it under the cold tap until medics arrived. The doctors at the hospital reportedly told the family that Joan's actions had prevented infection and any long-term damage, and they had been incredibly grateful to her.

"Thanks, Jonathan" Joan smiled, before walking up to the counter with Maria, and placing their orders. Once the men had began preparing their drinks, Joan covertly placed a twenty-dollar bill into the 'tips' jar, before leading Maria to a free booth near a window, where they would be assured the utmost privacy. Their drinks were bought over shortly afterwards, and the two women stirred and sipped for a few minutes, before Joan began to speak.

"So, how are you?" she asked tentatively, raising her eyes to meet Maria's as she continued to sip her coffee.

Maria's warm and reassured eyes glistened once more, and she pursed her lips together before shaking her head uncomfortably. "I... I don't know, I..." she paused for a moment, wrapping her hands around her coffee cup as she struggled to find the words. "Do you ever feel like everything that could possibly go wrong is going wrong? Like, no matter what you do, it's all too much?"

"Yes, occasionally. I think most people have experienced something like that" Joan responded gently, removing her hands from her coffee cup and entwining them, before placing them on the table. "But talking about these things often helps."

"I know, I... I'm just not the type, you know?" she smiled nervously, before taking a small sip of her coffee. "Wow, this is good" she stated absent-mindedly, smiling slightly once more. Joan nodded, and waited patiently for her to continue.

"After what happened with Alana, I just... it was awful, and I... to be honest I wasn't having a great time before." Once more, Joan waited patiently for her nervous associate to continue speaking, which she did after a few moments, taking a sip of coffee to restore her nerves. "I... My girlfriend broke up with me a few months ago, it was... not pleasant" she stated, taking a further sip.

"I'm sorry" Joan said apologetically, and with the utmost sincerity. "With everything that's going on, this must be a really difficult time for you."

"Yeah, it's just... it feels like the second I get close to someone, they leave, you know? My girlfriend left me, and now with Alana..."

"Were you and Alana-"

"No." Maria stated, shaking her head as she removed the coffee cup from her lips. "No, Alana was just... she was wonderful, really. Very kind, understanding. I was working for her when I was going through my break-up, and she was so supportive, so kind. She was wonderful." She stated, her eyes becoming light and tearful as she continued to talk. "I was just grateful to have someone like her in my life, you know."

"I know" Joan stated in a low and even tone, before taking a cautious sip of her own coffee.

"After I found out about what happened to Alana, the first thing I wanted to do was call my ex." Maria continued, shaking her head as she fought back the tears. "Stupid, right?"

"No, no not at all." Joan responded, watching Maria with warm eyes which were full of kindness and sympathy. "It's awful when you have this... connection with someone, someone you adore and who adores you too, but things happen and you aren't able to talk to them about the things that concern you the most."

"Yeah" Maria sighed, lifting her gaze from her coffee mug. "I'm sorry, have... have you been through a break-up recently too?"

"Not exactly, no" Joan responded eventually, taking a sip of coffee. "I just..." she paused, moving the coffee cup around in a circle on the desk, as she struggled to find the words. "I know what it feels like to feel let down by someone you care about, and to find yourself in a situation where you feel very, very alone." She stated, as she brushed the memories of her most recent conversation with Sherlock to the back of her mind. "But you're going to be alright, okay? You're going to get through this." Joan spoke with such certainty and conviction that Maria nodded almost instantly, even before she had fully taken in Joan's words. _We both will_ Joan thought, as she rose the cup to her lips for one last time, and took a satisfying sip. The coffee filled her with the same feelings of warmth and comfort as the shower had that morning, and she found herself experiencing a renewed sense of confidence and strength, which reassured her greatly. Joan and Maria spent a further twenty minutes in the coffee shop, ordering another drink and talking about a variety of subjects, before Maria excused herself, explaining that she had another interview later that afternoon.

"Wow, you are in demand" Joan stated in an impressed tone. "Good luck" she stated, smiling at her warmly. "Oh, and here" she continued, reaching into her bag and handing Maria a card. "This is my contact information. If you need anything, just call me, okay? Anytime."

"Thank you, Miss Watson" Maria stated, placing the card in her bag, before leaving the store. Joan sat in her seat for a few more minutes, sipping lightly on her coffee and running through the recent events in her head, before saying goodbye to the owners and their relatives and walking confidently back to the precinct. She found Gregson, Bell and Sherlock in the room where all of the information they had gathered and analysed on their victims was being kept, displayed on several large whiteboards. As she entered the room, she paused slightly, and found herself staring at the newest board, which was directly in front of her. It was of the suspect, Jake Thompson. There was a large photo of him in the centre, as well as some from his police files, and various other pieces of information about him. Gregson watched her with concern as she glanced at this board, before she allowed her stare to fall upon Sherlock, who turned slowly to face her. They looked at each other for a few moments, and Joan found that pieces of the conversation which she had just had with Maria was swimming in her mind, and reassuring her of the fact that she was strong, she was capable, and she was alright. Joan offered Sherlock a small smile, before turning her attention towards Captain Gregson, and preparing herself to speak. She stood tall and confident, and her face wore an expression of courage and conviction.

"Captain, I'd like to interview Jake Thompson."


	12. Chapter 12

"What?" Sherlock asked, his brows furrowing in confusion as he took a step closer to Joan. "No, Watson, I..." he paused, glancing at the surprised faces of Gregson and Bell, before continuing to speak in a slightly lower tone. "It would be too much, it-"

"No, really, it's fine. I've been thinking about it and I think it is a possible solution to our current stagnation."

"And for you?" Sherlock asked incredulously, before checking himself, and continuing in a more compassionate tone. "How would it be for you?"

"What's going on, here?" Gregson interjected, staring confusedly at Joan. She sighed for a moment, before casting a nervous glance towards Sherlock, who was watching her with fear alight in his eyes. Once all of the men's attention was upon her, she began to recount her first meeting with Jake in the coffee shop, followed by their date and her subsequent injury, which she stressed was completely accidental. Gregson and Bell appeared shocked at this, and Sherlock was attempting to control himself by drumming his fingers upon his thigh as she spoke, whilst trying to discern her current emotional state from her body language. He did not know why she was making such a suggestion, or what her logic for the decision was. But he did not think it was a good idea, not for her, and not now. For once, he found himself caring more about the person than the puzzle.

"Okay, Miss Watson" Gregson uttered eventually, drawling his words out in a manner which added an extra syllable to each word. "I get your... investment in this, but-"

"No, Captain, you misunderstand me. There is no investment. I am not invested for some personal reason relating to Jake Thompson. I just think that, given our... history, for lack of a better word, my presence in that room would be disarming. It would throw him off his game. He's maintained his silence on certain areas because he is clearly convinced that we have nothing on him. If the evidence and the interviewers aren't compelling him to talk, then let's shake it up. Worst case scenario, he doesn't reveal a thing, and we're in the same position we are now. But this has the potential to work for us, for his victims. We at least owe it to them to give it a shot."

"I must stress how much I disagree with this idea, Watson. Really, I... I don't believe that this is something we should be entertaining at the present moment" Sherlock stated, in his usual rapid and excitable tone.

"It'll be fine, Sherlock" she soothed, watching him with warmth and gratitude as she addressed him. "Nothing is going to happen. You guys will be right behind the glass, and I-"

"Wait, Watson, you... you wish to go in completely unassisted?" Sherlock asked, his eyes widening in surprise as he took another step towards her, until his tall figure was looming over her own. She tilted her head to the side briefly, before turning back to him and glaring at him with conviction.

"Like I said, I think it would throw him off-guard, which will mean that he is more likely to make a mistake, forget about a previous lie that he's told, or unwittingly disclose something that we can work with" she spoke calmly and confidently, watching him intently as he processed each word. "I've sat in on interviews before, and I've hosted them too, it's not an issue."

"You have never led an interview by yourself, Watson. Not with a witness or a victim, and certainly not with a man who we have very good reason to believe could be a salacious, violent serial-killer who has previously tried to court you, and possibly add you to his vastly expanding list of victims!" Sherlock spoke incredulously, his voice raised and shaking slightly, yet not filled with anger or remonstration. It was fear, confusion and utter bewilderment. He did not understand why she was doing this, or what she was trying to prove. His mind was racing with ideas and possible explanations as he watched her with complete and utter confusion, awaiting her response.

"I don't fit his victim profile" she replied in a slow and calm manner, using the tone she always used when trying to placate him. It had always reminded Sherlock of the way in which a teacher would explain a complex issue to a small and fairly difficult child. "He wasn't going to hurt me, Sherlock. If he was, he could have done so when I was bleeding profusely in his apartment. Besides, it isn't consistent with the killer's MO. He attacks his victims at their place of work, he doesn't invite them into his own personal space and slay them amid the candlelight."

"Candlelight?" he repeated in a childish manner, causing Joan to offer him a small smile, which the expression in his eyes returned. Although he was still apprehensive, he understood her logic and, although he would not admit it, he agreed with her. But just because she was not in any apparent immediate danger that night did not mean that she would not be in the future, and it certainly did not mean that she was safe now. As these thoughts entered his mind, he began to feel similar feelings of fear and anxiety which he had experienced on the previous occasions when Watson had been injured, as well as on the occasions when he had been considering the best way to protect her following their brief yet memorable romantic alliances. "I don't like it, Watson" he uttered in a whispered tone.

"It'll be okay, Sherlock" she responded warmly. "You'll be just behind the glass."

"Yeah, but I won't" Gregson interposed, removing his hands from his pockets as he watched Joan with an expression which mirrored her own. "I get your logic, Miss Watson, and I agree. But I also understand what Holmes is sayin', and I agree with that too. So, the condition of you doing this interview is that I will be by your side, at all times."

"Fine" Joan conceded, nodding towards him. Procedurally, it made sense. Technically she was a civilian and, although she was uncertain of just how the interview would progress, she did not wish to do anything which could result in the statements of Jake being deemed inadmissible in court. As much as anything else, she wished the victims of the killer to have justice. She would not compromise that. "When can we begin?"

"As soon as you're caught up on the case, the current evidence, and his previous interviews" Gregson responded immediately, before walking ahead of Joan and leading her towards a desk at the back of the room. He drew a seat forward for her, which she accepted, sitting herself down and placing her hands on her thighs, before turning her head to face Sherlock. He was standing in the same spot he had been, but had turned his body to face her. The look in his eyes was of fear and desperation, and it compelled her attention and would not allow her to break his gaze.

"Miss Watson?" Gregson called, pushing a folder across the desk.

"Yeah" she breathed, still staring at Sherlock. The latter shifted on the spot slightly, before turning and walking from the room. Joan watched after him for a few seconds, and was only drawn from her staring by Gregson, who called her name one more time. "Sorry, where were we?"

Gregson and Joan discussed the victims, details of the case so far, and the personal and professional profile of Jake Thompson. They remained at the table for just under thirty minutes. About fifteen minutes into their discussion, Joan became aware of the fact that Sherlock had re-entered the room. She knew it was him before she even turned to observe him. She couldn't explain how, she just did. At that particular moment, she had been perusing the criminal files on Jake, and only allowed herself to be drawn from them when a medium-sized paper bag was placed in front of her. Joan removed her glasses and placed them on the desk, before pulling the bag towards her cautiously, and peering inside. She opened her mouth to speak, before turning to face Sherlock directly, and watching him warmly.

"You bought me a club sandwich from my favourite shop?" she asked gently, knowing that he found such acts of altruism, on his part at least, to be difficult subjects to discuss.

"I bought you some coffee, too" he stated simply, placing a large cup in front of her. It was her regular order from the coffee shop owned by the family whose daughter she assisted. She had never told him about the place before, but his knowledge of it didn't surprise her.

"Thank you" she smiled, pulling the cup closer towards her. "Hang on a sec, these shops are like, what, ten blocks apart? How did you get there and back in fifteen minutes?"

"I used a _taxi_, Watson. Those hire-able vehicles which take you from your location to your destination for a fee, New York is full of them, I believe" he stated in a conversational tone.

"I guess you didn't try hailing them with your whistle, again" she stated playfully, raising the coffee to her lips. "Otherwise you'd still be standing outside the precinct."

Sherlock looked at her with a black expression, but warm and content eyes. "Thirteen."

"What?" she asked.

"The establishments are thirteen blocks apart."

"Right" she stated simply, smiling up at him, and finding herself temporarily lost in the moment. "Thank you, Sherlock. It was very thoughtful of you."

"Not at all, Watson. You will require your strength, both mental and physical, for this interview" he stated, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "And I will assist you in any way that I can. Starting with this" he stated, gesturing dismissively to the items he had just placed before her.

"Thanks" she stated warmly, pulling the sandwich from the bag, and breaking it in half. "Split it with me?" Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before drawing out the chair which was next to her own, easing himself slowly into it, and accepting the sandwich. Sherlock and Joan remained seated for the next quarter of an hour, during which time they ate and discussed the case, whilst Sherlock attempted to do everything within his power to prepare her for the interview.

When Joan had been fully debriefed, and had prepared herself as much as she was able to, she was escorted by Captain Gregson to the interview room in which Jake had been taken. She paused outside it for a moment, turning towards Sherlock, determined to convey her gratitude.

"Thank you, Sherlock" she began. "Thank you for your help."

"It was just a sandwich" he stated simply.

"It was more than just a sandwich" she responded. "But I appreciate the food, too" she stated amiably. "What I'm grateful for is that you helped me even when you didn't completely agree with what I was doing. I know you weren't happy with my choice, but you did everything you could to help me anyway, despite how difficult it was for you."

"You needed to be fully prepared before you embarked upon... this" Sherlock stated, indicating towards the closed door. "There is absolutely no way I would allow you to be placed in a situation where you are not completely and utterly prepared: armed with the facts and aware of the possible outcomes."

"I'm not sure that anyone can ever be that prepared."

"We can try, Watson" he responded, his eyes widening and becoming slightly glassy. "We can learn from past experiences and ensure that we use said experiences to prepare others facing the same difficulties." For a moment, just a moment, Joan felt something in her mind click into place. But before she had time to process her thoughts, or consider them further, Gregson was calling her name.

"Are you ready, Miss Watson?"

"Yeah" she replied a moment later, before turning her head regretfully from Sherlock, and towards Gregson and the door. "I'm ready". Gregson considered her for a moment, before nodding slowly, and opening the door with his right hand. He entered the room first, and Joan followed briskly behind. She found her mind pushing her previous thoughts away as it became filled with facts and details from the files she had been reading. As Captain Gregson took a step towards the table, pulling out a seat for Joan and then one for himself, she found herself standing just feet away from Jake Thompson, who was staring up at her with a look of immense confusion and incredible surprise.

"Joan?" he breathed, shifting in his seat as he turned to face her, causing his hands to chafe in his cuffs. "What are you... are you a cop?"

"I consult with the police" she responded mechanically, sounding more confident than she currently felt. "I am assisting them with this case" she continued, stepping closer to the table and easing herself into the seat. She then clasped her hands together and rested them in front of her, before looking at Jake with an expression of calmness and conviction.

"This case?" he repeated, glancing from her to Gregson, and back towards her. "There is no 'this case', okay? I am not involved with this, any of this. I haven't hurt anyone, Joan. You of all people must know that."

"Actually, I don't" she responded simply. "Which is why I'm here."

"Wait, you... you think I did this?" he asked incredulously, raising his hands in frustration as he fell back in his seat, deflated. "I could never harm a woman."

"Really?" she asked, her eyes narrowing as she flicked open a file which Gregson had placed in front of her. "So if I call Amelia Jennings from Ohio, or Melody Reladine from San Diego, are they gonna confirm that?"

Jake swallowed hard, before parting his lips slightly and leaning forward on the desk. Joan remained perfectly still and calm, her tired eyes resting upon his face, as he prepared himself to speak.

"Those were misunderstandings" he stated in a low tone, before raising his hands defensively. "I didn't touch them."

"And yet you were convicted for stalking, burglary and assault in relation to both of those women" Joan stated simply, briefly scanning the file once more, before turning her face up to face him. "Or are those mistakes too?"

Jake sighed, shaking his head in disbelief, before turning to face Joan with a look of defiance. "This is ridiculous. Yes, I have a part. Yes, I have some previous convictions. But I was innocent then and I am innocent now. All I am guilty of is having the misfortune of going out with a couple of crazy chicks who overreacted."

"Were the women you killed 'crazy'?" Joan asked, tilting her head slightly to the left as she gauged his response. "Did they 'overreact' to your advances too?" Jake scoffed at her remarks, crossing his arms across his chest, but not offering an immediate response. "I guess you have a type" Joan stated simply.

"Believe me, Joan" he began, adopting a flirtatious tone which reminded her very much of their first encounter. "I don't". From behind the glass, the words of this man, and the way in which he expressed them, vexed Sherlock deeply. He clenched his fists and held them tightly by his side, as she stared at the man who was speaking in such a manner to a woman he did not deserve. Joan stared at Jake with an indecipherable expression on her face, and waited patiently for him to continue. "I did not kill anyone."

"Well you'll forgive us if we don't just take your word for it" Gregson interjected, leaning back in his seat as he crossed his arms. "Now, in your past two interviews you have declined to tell us where you were on the evenings the victims died, and you have been less than forthcoming in other information, so, how about you start telling us the truth?"

"I have not lied to you, Detective" he responded acidly, his eyes glistening with anger. Joan had not seen this side of him before, and it was deeply unsettling. At that precise moment, she found herself wondering whether the expression that she was considering now was the last thing the three young women saw before they died. The thought made her want to weep. "I did not kill those women" he stated firmly, drawing Joan from her thoughts.

"But you knew them, didn't you?" Joan asked in a low yet conversational tone, which drew his attention instantly towards her, and his voice softened. "We have witnesses who confirm that you were seen working in the same building as the first victim, Melissa van Vale. Another witness also states that you were acquainted with Alana Morentez, the third victim. In fact, you were witnessed arguing with Miss Morentez, and threatening her." Joan continued, pausing for a moment to allow Jake to consider her words, and to study the look of fear and concern which had swept across his face. "Or is that a misunderstanding too?"

"Look, I... I'm a freelance accountant. I work with for many companies in many buildings in several cities. I run into people all the time, you can't possibly expect me to remember every single person I meet."

"Of course not, no. Which is why we can subpoena your financial history from the past year to find out exactly where you have been working, and who for. Of course, it would be simpler and much better for you if you just come clean right now" Joan stated simply. "Do you deny knowing Melissa van Vale, who was the CEO of J&F Dynamics?"

"I... I worked there about... I dunno, three or four months ago, maybe? I did some work for a couple of people, so... I guess I must have met the CEO" he stated, his voice trailing off as he spoke in a fractured manner, his face adopting an expression of confusion and mild panic. "But I... I don't remember her, I... I can't picture her face and the name doesn't sound familiar."

"Maybe this will help" stated Gregson, passing him a photograph of Melissa van Vale, which he looked at for a few seconds, before shaking his head and pushing the image back towards the Captain.

"She... she seems familiar but I... I don't know." He stated, his voice low and slightly dejected.

Joan nodded in understanding, before passing him another photograph from one of the files in front of her. "This is Alexis Mathers" she stated, placing a photograph in front of him, before pushing another one besides it. "And this is Alana Morentez. These women are victims two and three respectively, and they both worked for the legal firm Hadley and Rae. Do you know either of these women?"

"I..." he began, raising his hands defensively, before pushing the photos back towards Gregson. "This doesn't make sense, I... I'm being set up, or something, I..."

"Right, right." Said Gregson, not even attempting to hide his disbelief.

"So you do know them?" Joan asked, tilting her head slightly as she awaited his response.

"Yes. Yes, I knew them. But it's not what you think."

"So you worked for them, in your capacity as an accountant?" Joan asked, placing the photographs back into her files.

"I... I worked for Miss Morentez for a short while, I assisted her with the accounts of her department. There were some anomalies which needed ironing out, so I was working there for a short period of time. But I did not kill her."

"What did you do?" Joan asked, watching him with curiosity. His body language had changed dramatically, and was practically radiating guilt.

"We... we had a thing, okay? A very short, very brief fling. It... it didn't mean anything, it didn't last." He spoke simply, gesturing with his hands as he did so. Joan listened to him speaking, but did not believe a word. He had changed since his last statements, and was adopting a different tone of voice. He was more hunched in his chair, and was not making eye contact with either herself or Gregson, which he had been doing with conviction when answering each of the previous questions. Although he had displayed some physical characteristics which led her to be quite certain that he was lying about his innocence in regards to his past. But he spoke more confidently and with more believability when he denied killing the women. She almost believe him. But he was lying again now, and she wanted to know why.

"You're claiming that you had a romantic affair with the third victim, Miss Morentez?" she asked.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Were you aware that she was engaged?"

"Yes. Which was why we had to be discreet. We met in her office after work and... you know."

"Hmm" Joan hummed, running her finger down the spine of the second file of the stack in front of her, which she drew out from the pile, pulling it towards her and flicking through the pages, before she found the relevant highlighted section. "I did not physically harm her. We were having an affair. It didn't long and was purely physical. I ended it after a short while, which she was upset about. She's doing this out of revenge." Joan read, before placing the open file in front of her, and glaring hard at Jake. "That is what you said in April 2006 when you were interviewed about the stalking and assault of Melody Reladine, right after you were caught assaulting her in her home." Joan stated, finding herself becoming more confident as the interview progressed. He was sticking to the script of his previous interviews in relation to this case, but was clearly disarmed by her presence, and by the manner by which she was directing the interview. He was clearly being dishonest and he was not covering his tracks very well. "This must be getting quite frustrating for you, being faced with all these false allegations."

Jake didn't respond to this declaration, and simply stared hard at Joan, not breaking her gaze.

"Although, Miss Reladine's statement was very different, wasn't it? She claimed that she met you when one of the accountants you worked with at your private firm was unable to see her, so you filled in. She said that you were "aggressively flirtatious" and "wouldn't accept either subtle hints or direct requests to desist"." Joan paused for a moment, lifting her eyes from the file once more as she stared back at him. "Is that what happened with Miss Morentez, Jake? She was a very moral, kind and compassionate person who was, by all accounts, completely devoted to her fiance. She upheld values of honesty and integrity. I don't believe that she was having an affair. Did she reject your advances, infuriating you, and leading to you attacking her in her office? And then turning up to her new place to threaten her into silence?"

"Okay" he said, raising one hand as high as he was able within his restraints. "Look, I... I did flirt with her and yes, some may have viewed my actions as... persistent. But I did not harm her."

"You have a history of stalking and violent behaviour against women. You refuse to give us an alibi for any of the three crimes, you had knowledge of the buildings which the victims worked in, and you worked for each of their companies. You also admit to having met at least two of the three victims in the past four months." Joan summarised, before pausing once more and watching as Jake's breathing increased and his eyes became glassy. "So you'll understand if your claims that you didn't harm these women are not enough to convince us, won't you? Particularly as they mirror the statements you made in the past, all of which led to convictions."

"Joan, I... I know what this looks like, but... I don't understand what's going on here, I don't, I..." he paused, raising his hands in frustration once more. Jake was becoming flushed and confused, which was utterly eroding his formerly cool and calm demeanour.

"Tell me the truth, Jake" she responded, in a warm and conversational tone. "Tell me the truth and I might be able to help you."

There was an uncomfortable silence which filled the room, during which time none of the parties knew what was going to happen. Jake was staring at Joan intently, as if hoping the script to his next response would be etched upon her face. But it was not. All he saw there was certainty, self-assuredness and conviction. Ironically, from behind the glass, this is exactly what Sherlock was viewing in his partner. But instead of consuming him with complete and unabated terror, he was filled him with pride, awe and gratitude.

Jake sighed deeply, placing one hand on his head and rubbing his temple gently, before leaning back in his chair. He inhaled sharply, before clasping his hands together and leaning forward slightly, adopting a position which was almost identical to Joan's own.

"Okay. I... I will give you full disclosure, Joan, but... you must know that I am telling you the truth." He looked up at Joan expectantly, traces of panic clearly etched upon his features, before he continued to speak. "Alana and I spent a lot of time together. Her accounts were a mess, she... she really wasn't too great with paperwork, and... look, I... we flirted, a bit, and when we... she changed her mind, before anything happened, and I-" he paused for a moment, considering how best to frame his next statement. "Maybe I was a bit... overly keen, okay? Persistent, yeah, sure. She was pretty, she was sweet and I... we hit it off, right away. I thought she was having doubts because of her fiance, but... I dunno." He paused, raising his hands slightly before lacing his fingers together once more, and looking up to face Joan. "She was always making me cups of coffee, smiling and laughing with me, asking about my day. She was-"

"Being a kind, decent and considerate human being?" Joan interjected.

"It was more than that." he countered.

"Was it? Why?"

"It was obvious!" he declared, his eyes alight and his features alert.

"How, Jake?" Joan asked calmly and considerately, pouncing on his unintentional slip-up. "How does that behaviour equate to flirting? Or to an acceptance of your advances?"

"What else could it be? She was always like that with me, always trying to talk to me, engage me in conversation. She... exhilarated me. One day I tried to show her I was interested in her advances, that her advances were reciprocated. She..." He continued, clenching his teeth slightly as he paused.

"Overreacted?" Joan asked, attempting to conceal her disdain.

"Yeah" Jake stated defiantly, staring hard at Joan. "She pushed me away and acted shocked, you know? The look on her face, she... it was just-" he paused for a moment, attempting to control his rising temper. "She apologised to me for the 'misunderstanding' and said she didn't intend on leading me on. We... it got heated, yes. I told her what I thought of her, and she just... she stood there, quiet, not yelling back not arguing, not... just listening. She apologised again, real calm, you know? Then asked me to leave her office. She resigned a few days later."

"She resigned?" Joan asked. "Just like that?"

"She overreacted."

"No, I don't she did. I think that whatever transpired between you guys in that office is something which is far greater than what you told me. I think that she left, abruptly, because she was afraid. And I think you followed her to her new place of work, as you did with the two women you are convicted of having stalked and assaulted." Joan spoke in a low, solemn tone, and watched Jake with interest as she did so. The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know about the accuracy of her deduction. "She didn't tell anyone, you know. Not even her fiance. And I suspect we will never know exactly what happened. But what we do know is that you frightened her, so much so that she changed jobs. But you couldn't let her go, could you? Her leaving her job was like her rejecting you, and that was not something you would be able to process."

"You're wrong" he stated simply, glaring harshly at Joan.

"I wish I was?" Joan stated simply. "You went to her office another day, didn't you? A few weeks ago, late at night, when you thought she was the only one in? What, did you wait til it was dark and she was alone so she'd feel vulnerable and unprotected, so you could frighten her?" She asked. Jake shifted slightly in his seat, and swallowed hard, but did not verbally respond to her question. He didn't have to. "From the personal accounts of Miss Morentez, from statements gathered by her friends and colleagues, she was not confrontational. She was patient, compassionate, open-minded. It's why she was so good at what she did, she was approachable. I expect she tried to reason with you, attempt to establish some common ground, and explain calmly and concisely that she did not share your feelings, and that she wanted you to leave. Was a second rejection too much for you?"

Jake flushed slightly, and appeared to be notably more uncomfortable than he had been previously. He was lying, and he had been caught out. And he knew it.

"That's why you went to her office that night, isn't it? To threaten her, as you have done to so many women. You couldn't bear not being in control, could you? Be undermined? And certainly not by a woman. And whilst you were stalking her, you came across Alexis Mathers, a beautiful young woman in the same building, who bears a notable resemblance to Miss Morentez. Did you release your anger on her first?"

"No." He breathed, his eyes ablaze. "I didn't hurt either of those women. And Alana Morentez was no saint."

"Oh?"

"No. She flirted with me, led me on. When I was assigned to her new building, and I saw her again, we talked, she apologised, and that was that."

"She apologised? For what?" Joan asked, successfully hiding her incredulity.

"For how she acted last time, when she overreacted. She was overly sensitive."

"Was she?"

Jake watched her for a few moments, before tilting his head to one side and scoffing audibly, closing his eyes briefly before beginning to speak.

"I didn't touch her, Joan. I assure you."

"I don't believe you."

"Just like I didn't touch you." Joan paused for a moment, and felt her shoulder begin to ache slightly with the allusion to the incident. "I... I was fond of Miss Morentez, Joan, just like I was fond of you. I do not wish to see any of the women I... I like, harmed. I find them exhilarating, you see. Much more so alive than dead."

"Is that so?"

"It is" he replied, his voice adopting an arrogant tone which Joan found to be highly distasteful.

"So your defence is that you did not kill Miss Morentez because you preferred live victims to stalk?" Joan watched him for a moment, and realised that he would reveal little else at the present moment. But perhaps he had given them enough. "With your history, your attitude and your association with the victims and their places of work, it is clear that you are standing on very weak ground. If you harmed those women, in any way, we will find it out, and you will pay for what you have done" she stated with conviction, before rising from her chair and gathering her files, crossing the room and making her way to the door. She could hear Captain Gregson follow her example, but as she placed her hand on the handle, Jake called to her from the back of the room.

"I liked you, Joan" he stated, in the same arrogant and sinister tone that he had adopted in the last few minutes of the interview. "Really, I did. In fact, after our evening together, I found you to be even more exhilarating than Miss Morentez."

Joan froze for a moment, and found herself temporarily at a loss of how to respond. Although she realised the necessity of fast action; if she did not leave soon, she was concerned about what state Sherlock would work himself up into. She breathed in deeply, before turning on the spot to face Jake, who was being glared at by the now standing Captain Gregson.

"See how much prison exhilarates you" she returned, before swinging open the door and stepping through it. She took a few steps to the right of the room and leaned against the wall, closing her head as she exhaled deeply, closing her eyes for just a moment.

"Watson?" came a familiar voice, causing her eyes to snap open. Sherlock was looking at her with an expression of the utmost concern. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes" she stated simply, offering him a warm yet tired smile. "Unlike Mr Thompson, of course. With the details he just gave us, we have several more possible leads to follow."

"I didn't just mean professionally, Watson." He stated, his voice compassionate and warm.

"I know" she breathed, in a friendly and amiable manner. "Thanks."

Within moments, Gregson and Bell were standing with Sherlock and Joan, and were eagerly awaiting a discussion on the recent events.

"So...?" Gregson began.

"Not sure" Sherlock stated simply, turning to face the room for a moment, before allowing his gaze to fall upon Captain Gregson. "He certainly is a strong contender for the crimes. He has the history, the opportunity, the attitude of a stalker-slash-killer, as well as a deep and almost completely baseless perception of his 'relationship' with Miss Morentez who, I am quite certain, was not the philandering kind." He continued, before turning to Joan. "Watson?" he asked, inviting her opinion on the matter.

"While I agree, I... I do have some doubts" she stated hesitantly. "The way he volunteered the information, I... if he were the killer I don't see why he would be so forthcoming."

"He copped to the lesser charges in the hopes that they would lead us to believe that he did not commit the greater ones. Criminal aversion 101." Gregson stated simply, placing his hands in his pockets.

"Possibly, yeah, I guess" Joan replied. "There's also the victim profile."

"What about it?" Sherlock asked curiously, in a pleasant and encouraging tone.

"The two women Thompson was convicted of stalking and assaulting were petite blondes, whereas our victims are all tall brunettes. Also, he attacked his two victims in their homes, hence the burglary charges. These women were attacked in their places of work." Joan paused for a moment, surveying the expressions on the men around her. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but, it's not something that we can ignore. There are dissimilarities in the Mos of these offences which need to be acknowledged."

"I agree" Sherlock stated, looking from Joan to Gregson and Bell. Before he could continue to speak, Captain Gregson's phone began to ring, and he extracted it from his pocket and held it to his ear, before excusing himself, and walking a few meters away. "These points do require further investigation. I believe that our next move should be to completely analyse the previous crimes which Mr Thompson was convicted of, as well as any that he was suspected of having-"

"Hold that thought" Gregson commanded, as he walked briskly back towards his colleagues. "I just got a call from one of my detectives. About twenty minutes ago, a woman was found by her husband in her home, she had been beaten and stabbed in the same manner as the other victims. Her name is Greta Masters, she is 37 years old, tall, brunette. She is a senior accountant at a local private firm" Gregson continued, gauging the attention of the other three individuals. "And she is alive."


	13. Chapter 13

"She's alive?" Joan asked, turning to face the Captain directly. "Is she alright?"

"She's been beaten and stabbed, but her injuries are non-life threatening. She was found in her home by her husband an hour ago and is on her way to the hospital now. My detective called me from the ambulance, and told me that she's slowly regaining consciousness."

"Do we know when the attack took place?" Sherlock asked, watching the Captain expectantly.

"Not exactly, no. Mrs Masters was usually gets back from work at between 9 and 10pm, and her husband found her just after ten this morning, after getting back on the red-eye from a business trip to Denver. When the officers found her, she was dressed in her business suit, so we can assume the attack happened when she got back from work."

"Or before" Joan offered. "This morning, maybe, before she left? Do we have confirmation that she arrived at work yesterday?"

"No, not yet." Gregson replied, his eyes conveying his worry.

"So it's possible that Jake Thompson didn't attack her. I mean, he was with us from eleven o'clock last night." She said, half to herself. "He may not be our guy."

"It is possible that Mr Thompson committed the latest offence, Watson. He would have had ample time to do so, before returning to his apartment, where he was found by police shortly before eleven." Sherlock began in a conciliatory tone. "It is also possible that this crime may be unrelated to our current ones."

"Yeah, but it would be one helluva coincidence, wouldn't it?" Gregson countered. "I mean, the MO and the victim profile are almost identical. Apart from the location and the fact that the victim is still alive."

"Quite, Captain" Sherlock began cautiously. "But these are things that we must consider. However, we can do little more than speculate until we have analysed the scene and spoken to the victim."

"Yeah" replied the Captain, tiredly rubbing his temples. "We'll head to the scene first. CSUs are on their way, and Mrs Masters won't be available to talk to right now. Are you guys good to go?" He asked, looking towards Joan and Sherlock.

"Of course" Joan responded immediately, before turning to Sherlock, who nodded in affirmation.

Sherlock, Joan, Gregson and Bell travelled by police car to a modern apartment in Manhattan, which had been recently renovated. As the group travelled in the elevator to the top floor, Joan felt her stomach clench slightly, and it took her a while to realise why. The last time she had been near an elevator was when she had moved to examine the one at the crime scene, and had been attacked. This realisation did not hit her until after Gregson had pressed the button to the appropriate floor, by which time it was too late for her to make an excuse to use the stairs. Joan felt flushed suddenly, and ever so slightly panicked. It felt as though all the air had vanished from the small box which was holding them all prisoner, and she felt as though her skin was on fire. She leaned back against the mirror in the lift which, fortunately, was on the back wall of the elevator, where she and Sherlock were standing. Gregson and Bell were in front of them and were, therefore, completely oblivious to her current distress. Visually, she appeared to be fine, but internally, she was far from it. Her heart was beginning to race, and her skin was feeling increasingly hot. She was beginning to feel slightly light-headed, and unsteady on her feet, which caused her to shift slightly when the elevator finally began to ascend. She pressed herself against the back wall, holding her hands by her sides, as she closed her eyes before taking in a deep, calming breath, which she found soothed her slightly. For a few moments, she felt quite calm, almost serene, as she continued to block out the fact that she was in a place which she now associated with danger and violence. She did not know how long her eyes remained closed, or what it was exactly that she had been thinking of, when she found herself drawn from her thoughts by the feeling of something in her left hand.

Soon after Joan had closed her eyes, and shifted slightly after the elevator began to move, Sherlock turned to face her, and immediately noticed how uncomfortable she was. Her body language and current demeanour could not conceal the fact that she was afraid, and it took him a very short period of time to deduce why. He watched her with sympathy and concern as he realised how hard she was trying to remain calm, and keep herself feeling safe and secure. For a moment, he felt at a loss of what to do, and how to help her. But mere seconds after he first observed the signs of her distress, he found himself moving sideways slightly, edging closer to her. When they were just three inches or so apart, Sherlock glanced towards Joan, who was visibly tense, and attempting to control her breathing. As he observed her current state, he found himself acting immediately and instinctively. His right hand moved slowly and cautiously towards her left, before he threaded his fingers gently between her own, and squeezed reassuringly. For a moment, he was afraid that she would reject his action, or feel more unsettled by his attempts to comfort her. After their conversation on the roof, he would not be surprised if she removed her hands from his, rejecting his attempts at assistance. And he would not blame her. It took Joan a few moments to notice the contact, and to understand what it was. Within a moment, her eyes snapped open, and he noticed that her entire body relaxed, before she edged slightly closer to him, and her fingers returned his squeeze. Neither of them looked at each other during this time, but their hands laced together, for several moments, until the elevator pinged and the doors slowly began to open. As soon as the 'ping' was heard, both Sherlock and Joan allowed their hands to remove themselves from each other's, and fall back to their sides. The four individuals within the elevator then walked briskly from it, making their way down the corridor and towards one of the apartments. Gregson and Bell were oblivious to the contact just shared by their colleagues, and Sherlock and Joan did not acknowledge it.

They made their way to the apartment at the end of the corridor, which was guarded by a uniformed police officer, who opened the door after exchanging a few brief words with Captain Gregson. Gregson, Bell, Sherlock and Joan passed cautiously into the apartment, pausing a few feet inside to survey the scene before them. The entire floor of this apartment was open plan, with the kitchen and breakfast bar to the far right, which seemed to be undisturbed, well-decorated and extremely expensive. It had white counter-tops and dark wooden drawers and furniture, with bone china and silver utensils lining the walls, and the most up-to-date kitchen appliances recently installed. The breakfast bar was adorned with red and white roses, and a small bowl of water with floating lilies were displayed on the dining room table. It was clean, tidy and impeccably decorated, which provided a stark contrast to the rest of the apartment. To the left was the rest of the apartment, and it was very much a crime scene. There was a large, black leather corner sofa which faced the kitchen, with similar couches by the side, and a large, antique coffee table in the centre, which had been overturned, leading to the destruction of the wine glasses and decanter which had evidently adorned it at some point. A bloodied crystal ash tray also lay amongst the wreckage, and there were small amounts of blood on various pieces of furniture, as well as the cream cushions which had fallen from the couches. Several large and unlit candles had rolled across the room, and lay scattered across the open space. The cushions on the largest couch were out of place, with a few lying on the floor, and a one wedged between two couches. The shelving unit to the right had been disturbed, and the items which had resided in the centre were lying broken on the floor. There was a small pool of blood in the cream carpet beneath this spot, and splatter could be seen across the shelves, and some of the objects which remained on it. At the opposite side of the room were some framed photographs, which looked as if they had been hurled at the wall, and now lay smashed in a heap. By the side of these photographs was a small pool of blood, a bloodied tea-towel, and a designer high-heel.

"Is that where she was found?" Joan asked in a low voice, indicating towards the blood pool.

"Yeah" responded a detective who had moved towards the new arrivals, and was passing Gregson a file. "We will get you copies of the photos as soon as possible. Mrs Masters was lying on her left side, one arm across her stomach, when her husband found her. He turned her onto her back and applied pressure to the wound using the tea-towel you can see there, before calling 911."

"Thanks, Murphy" responded the Captain, flicking through the sheets of paper he had just been given, before passing them to Joan. "It's the primary report from the medics."

Joan accepted the papers and scanned them quickly, looking up from the sheets a couple of times to gaze across the scene, before turning back to the first page and preparing herself to speak. "According to the primary report, the victim sustained significant blunt force trauma to the face, neck and upper-extremities. It's hard to tell at this stage, but there's a bloodied ash tray on the floor, that could have been the weapon used to inflict such injuries" Joan stated, pausing for a moment as she glanced towards the overturned coffee table. "That would be consistent with the blood spatter by the couch and cushions, as well as the signs of a struggle in that general area." She looked at the scene before her, imagining the scene she just described taking place, before forcing herself to abandon such a thought, and continue with the report. "The medics also recorded a total of three penetrating stab wounds to the abdomen, but based on the pattern and significance of the injuries, they... they may have been hesitantly committed, or inflicted by someone with limited upper-body strength."

"The wounds were shallow?" Sherlock asked, confusion etched upon his face.

"Yeah" she replied, the same expression gracing her own features. "Which is odd. Shallow wounds are not consistent with the amount of violence and anger which are clearly present from this room, and the other injuries. It is doubtful whether someone with limited upper-body strength would have been able to inflict such extreme blunt force trauma upon the victim, and it is equally unlikely that someone with such rage would act hesitantly during the stabbing."

"But the levels of blunt force trauma are inconsistent with the previous attacks, are they not?" he asked.

"Yeah" she replied. "The other victims had some other injuries, but none this prolific" she paused for a moment, flicking through the pages of the report until she came to the one which contained a diagram of the location of the injuries of the victim. "I mean, it's clearly a highly personal attack, so why hesitate?"

"Perhaps the personal nature of the attack was the _reason_ for the hesitation" Sherlock stated in a low and even tone, before walking across the room and towards the location where the victim had been found. He tilted his head to one side as he observed the evidence on the ground, before turning back to Joan, who was watching him expectantly. "There are eight picture frames on the shelf, and three on the floor. We can see that these frames were taken from the highest shelves on the unit, as there are spaces there which are consistent with the shape and size of the frames. These photographs, the only ones hurled across the room, are all wedding photos. They depict love, trust and companionship" he paused for a moment, allowing his gaze to fall from Joan's for a moment, before continuing. "Something in these photographs enraged the attacker, causing him to hurl them across the room with tremendous force."

"Force which is not consistent with someone with little to no upper-body strength" Joan stated simply, as realisation dawned upon her.

"Precisely" he responded, taking a few steps across the room and towards the couch. "These photographs angered someone, someone who valued Mrs Masters as a companion, as a lover. Seeing photographs of her married, and happy, and with her husband, enraged them. We are either looking for a lover, a person who is obsessed with her, or her husband."

"Would someone who is as obsessive as Jake Thompson fit the bill?" Bell asked.

"Oh yes, Detective. Very much so" Sherlock responded. "Whoever committed this crime, thought, felt closer to this particular victim than any other. That's clear by the personal nature of the attack and the hesitation."

"The hesitation?" Gregson asked. "How?"

"The initial assault on Mrs Masters was committed out of anger and despair. It was designed to hurt her, and to allow the attack to release their pain and frustration. The stabbing, as with the other victims, was intended to kill" Sherlock explained, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "But our attacker could not go through with hit. He could hurt her, he could hurt her terribly. But he could not bring himself to kill her."

"What does that suggest?" Joan asked, although she believed that she already knew the answer.

"Only one possible thing, Watson" he stated in a low and breathless voice, before turning to meet her gaze directly. "It means that our attacker loves the victim. Or, at least, that he is infatuated with her to such an extent that the idea of actually killing her was much more difficult and harder to carry out than he had initially realised. I expect he is feeling quite conflicted at this moment."

"Unless he thinks the job is already done" Bell offered. "Maybe he thought that he did it, that she's dead." 

"Unlikely, but it's possible" responded Sherlock. "Although I personally wouldn't wager a great amount of money on that theory. No. No, I believe that our latest victim is more than we may realise. Based on the nature of her attack, and the evidence of this room, I believe that she and the killer are known to each other, and are or were romantically involved. I also think it is possible that we consider the possibility that she was the intended victim all along. The original."

"In what sense?" Gregson asked, burying his hands in his pockets.

"In the sense, Captain, that this is the woman who our attacker wished to kill all along. The other women were killed to both release his anger, and to allow him to build up the practice and the conviction to commit this" he raised his arms theatrically, and gestured about the room, "his desired crime."

"You're saying that the other victims were just practice runs?" Bell asked.

"I'm saying that they were innocent women butchered because of their physical resemblance to Mrs Masters, as well as their similarity in dress and occupation." Sherlock spoke in a low and respectful tone. "And our killer is not done yet."

"You think he'll try to hurt Mrs Masters again?" Joan asked cautiously.

"Oh I have no doubt of it" he responded instantly, "despite his inability to complete his... his intentions, the anger and hatred within the killer will mean that it is highly unlikely that he will leave it here. He will either make another attempt on the life of Mrs Masters, or attack other women in the meantime. Either way, we must act fast" he stated, turning to face Gregson. "Captain, how soon can we talk to Mrs Masters?"

"I dunno" he stated simply, reaching into his pocket for his cellphone "But I'm gonna find out" Gregson scrolled through his contacts list and began to dial, before raising the phone to his ear and walking back towards the front door to the apartment.

"So you really think that this guy could attack Mrs Masters again?" Joan asked Sherlock, as he took a few steps closer to her.

"I do, Watson" he responded, as he drummed his fingers upon his thigh. "I also believe that she may know the identity of the man we are looking for." Joan nodded in understanding, and was about to respond, when they saw the tall form of Captain Gregson walking briskly towards them.

"I just called my detective, who's at the hospital with our victim. She's in a stable condition and able to talk".

"Then I suggest we go there immediately" Sherlock stated, walking towards Gregson. "We must speak to her at once."

Gregson and Bell walked swiftly from the apartment, followed by Sherlock and Joan, who hung slightly behind. Much more progress had been made in the case over the past few hours than in the past week, and each of the members of the investigative team were processing the influx of new informations, and dealing with their own personal issues in relation to the case. The walk from the apartment to the lift was a quick one, and felt even faster than it was due to the fact that Sherlock and Joan's minds were racing with information and ideas. It was not until Joan was standing four or five feet from the elevator that she began to realise where she was, and she felt herself quickly overcome by familiar feelings of anxiety and dread. She paused on the spot for a moment, which drew Sherlock's attention immediately to her. She began to take a few steps further ahead, walking towards the elevator as she attempted to control her breathing.

"Watson and I have something to discuss, Captain. We will take the stairs." Sherlock stated with conviction, before turning to the right and leading Joan towards the doorway to the stairs. Joan turned to face Gregson, who nodded simply, before pressing a button on the inside of the elevator. Joan stared after them until the lift doors closed completely, before walking briskly across the corridor and towards Sherlock, who was holding the door open for her.

"Thank you" she stated kindly, passing through the doorway and walking down the stairs. Although she suspected he had done this as a way of attempting to save her from a potentially unsettling situation, she was not completely sure. Despite the fact that there was still much they needed to discuss, she doubted that anything would be said on the short trip from the fourth floor to the ground. She also doubted that the present moment was one which Sherlock would deem appropriate to discuss the issue. She waited patiently for a few moments, remaining completely silent as they descended half of the stairs between the fourth floor and the third, before the sound of Sherlock's voice drew her from her thoughts.

"Our interview with Mrs Masters may be uncomfortable for her, Watson" he began, speaking in a conversational manner. "But it is essential that she answers our questions. I believe that she may be reluctant, but she must understand that her failure to disclose certain information may put herself and others in grave peril."

"I understand" Joan replied despondently after a few moments. "Why are you telling me this?" She asked perplexedly. They both knew this, she, Gregson and Bell had worked it out too. So why was he telling her?

"Because total disclosure is not something that all people find easy, Watson" he began, his tone lowering and voice adopting a grave and slightly nervous air. "No matter what the risks".

"To themselves or others?" she countered, attempting to keep her voice even.

"To everyone" Sherlock answered sadly, walking quickly past her as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and crossing the foyer to meet the waiting Captain Gregson. Joan walked briskly towards them, crossing her arms across her chest as she reached Sherlock's side.

"Bell's in the car, we're gonna head straight to the hospital" Gregson explained, receiving nods of understanding from both Sherlock and Joan. "Are you guys ready?"

"Yeah"

"Yes"

Gregson looked perplexedly from Joan to Sherlock, before nodding quickly, and turning towards the front of the building. Sherlock and Joan followed Gregson to the car, pausing at the edge of the pavement for a moment. Sherlock took a few steps forward and opened the back door, holding it open for Joan, who thanked him as she arrived by the door, before easing herself into the seat. Sherlock nodded in response, before closing the door gently behind Joan, and joining her in the back. The fifteen minute journey from the apartment to the hospital was passed in relative silence.

Gregson, Bell, Sherlock and Joan arrived at the hospital just after 11,30am, and walked straight towards the reception desk. Gregson walked ahead, flashing his badge and exchanging a few brief words with the receptionist, before the group were ushered into a private room on one of the wards. Gregson knocked on the door, before entering alone and exchanging a few words with the occupants. He then opened the door and permitted the entrance of the waiting Bell, Sherlock and Joan, who entered the room with anticipation.

The room was clean, minimalist and smelled like fresh lilies. There was a hospital bed in the middle of the room against the wall, and medical machines to the left and right of it. To the far left of the room was a window, which was slightly above a small table and two chairs. There were other chairs to the right of the room, and framed pictures of flowers and scenic views adorned the walls. As soon as they stepped into the room, each of the members of the team saw the injured woman seated in the centre of the bed, and leaning gratefully into a suited man to her left, who the team correctly deduced to be her husband. Mrs Masters had long, dark hair, which was thick and curly. She was slim and toned, and her attractiveness could still be discerned beneath the purple bruising and broken skin across her face and neck. The blood had been washed off of her face, neck and arms, but her skin was still tinged red. There were lacerations to her wrists and lower arms, which appeared to be consistent with defensive wounds, and one of her eyes was bruised and slightly blood shot. And yet, despite her injuries, Mrs Masters had the appearance of a calm, collected and incredibly confident businesswoman, and was watching the new arrivals to her room with an expression which would not seem out of place in the boardroom.

"You must be Detective Bell" she spoke, in a confident yet slightly croaky voice, as she focused her attention on Bell, whose badge was on show. She then tilted her head slightly towards Sherlock and Joan, who were standing by his side. "Which would make you Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson" she spoke, earning a nod from each of the new members. "Captain Gregson says that you wish to speak to me" she said curiously, glancing from face to face. "So, where shall we begin?"

"First of all, Mrs Masters, I want you to know how sorry we are for what you've been through, and that we wish you a full and speedy recovery" Joan stated, in a kind and compassionate tone.

"Thank you, Miss Watson" she responded mechanically, in the same tone she probably used when thanking an assistant for handing her a report she had requested. "Your kindness is appreciated."

"I can't even begin to imagine what you've been through" Joan continued, speaking in the same kind tone. "Do you feel ready to talk about it?" Mrs Masters swallowed, reaching her hand up and holding the hand of her husband, whose arm was draped across her neck. He tightened his grip on her hand and kissed her forehead tenderly. Joan watched the scene with awe, admiring the clear devotion of Mr Masters, who clearly adored his wife.

"Of course" she responded after a couple of moments, lifting her head slightly to meet Joan's gaze. "Where shall I begin?"

"Could you tell us what the last thing you remember is?" Joan asked tentatively.

Mrs Masters nodded, glancing to the side for a few moments, as if trying to gather her thoughts. She cleared her throat before beginning to speak. "I left work just after eight o'clock last night, and arrived home shortly before quarter-to-nine. It was slightly earlier than usual, one of my early morning meetings was cancelled, so there was less I needed to prepare ahead of the coming day." She paused for a moment, meeting Joan's gaze. Joan nodded in understanding, and the injured woman continued. "I remember walking into my apartment, placing my coat on the coat rack, and heading towards the coffee table for a wine glass. As I reached it there was-" she broke off for a moment, inhaling sharply. Mr Masters noticed her discomfort and adjusted himself accordingly, drawing her closer to his chest and rubbing her arm reassuringly.

"It's okay, sweetheart" he soothed. "Take your time." Joan watched the husband's face and body language as he spoke to his wife, and felt a combination of awe and great sadness. He clearly loved his wife, but it was a very real possibility that she was or had been cheating on him. Joan dispelled this thought from her mind the moment it occurred. Regardless of her conduct, Mrs Masters had been the victim of a brutal attack, and required and deserved as much support as was possible.

"Honey, would you-" she began, turning her head upwards to face her husband. "Would you mind stepping outside for a moment to call my sister? I'd like her to know that I am here."

"Of course, Greta. Of course" he stated, kissing her forehead as he slowly disentangled his body from her own, and eased himself from the bed. "Are you sure you'll be-"

"Of course" she stated with conviction, attempting a smile, which seemed to reassure him. She watched him carefully as he walked towards the door, and passed through into the hallway. She waited for a few seconds before addressing the individuals in her room again.

"I do not wish my husband to be present in discussions of this, you understand. He shouldn't have to hear about what I-" she broke off, shifting slightly in her bed, before turning to face the team with a calm and composed expression. "Someone grabbed me from behind, pushing me forwards into the coffee table" she continued, in a slightly choked voice. Mrs Masters recovered herself quickly, and her eyes shone with both tears and conviction. "My memory of the events following this are slightly hazy, you understand" she offered simply, pursing her lips together as she once more surveyed the expressions on the faces of the people in her room. "I believe that I was struck several times with a... with the ash tray. I also vaguely recall being pushed against... against the shelving unit before-" she broke off once more, lowering her head slightly, before raising her head with confidence. "Before being stabbed. Fortunately, those injuries are not serious. They are not deep at all, and are almost completely superficial."

"Physically, maybe" Joan spoke softly. "But you've been through a physically and emotionally traumatising time. It's very easy to underestimate the extent of your injuries, but it's important to acknowledge their severity. And I don't just mean in physical terms."

"Yes" she replied mechanically and without emotion. "I quite understand, thank you."

"I am Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Masters" came a familiar voice from Joan's side. "Myself and Miss Watson consult for the NYPD. I was wondering if you remember any of the details of your attacker?"

Mrs Masters stared at him with a blank and unreadable expression for a few moments, before swallowing hard and shaking her head. "No, Mr Holmes, I am afraid that I do not."

"Nothing?" he asked gently. "Mrs Masters, are you quite certain?"

"I was struck on the head. Repeatedly, according to medics. As I have told you, my memory is a little hazy."

"Yes, but you recalled with impressive clarity some of the events which occurred during your attack. You recall being struck and being held against the shelving unit. Do you not recall anything about the individual who put you in those situations?" Joan felt her chest tighten slightly. Although Sherlock's tone was fair and even, his line of questioning was not what she deemed to be appropriate. Mrs Masters had answered his question, and she did not believe that it was suitable for him to harass her in this manner.

"Sherlock..." she drawled warningly.

"His height? Physical characteristics? Anything about him that you can recall?"

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but I cannot help you" she returned, in a voice which was incredibly calm and composed. "As I told you, I was grabbed from behind, and have sustained a head injury. All I remember about the-" she broke off her statement for a moment, narrowing her eyes as she thought. "About the person who attacked me" she continued, rising her head to meet Sherlock's inquisitive stare, "is that they were tall. About your height, I should imagine. Slim, yet athletic. I believe they wore black."

"Thank you, Mrs Masters" Sherlock responded gratefully, nodding enthusiastically as he spoke. "And is that consistent with a description of your lover?"

The room was uncomfortably quiet, and the discomfort of those inside was only increased by the piercing stare which Mrs Masters was inflicting upon Sherlock.

"Whatever are you suggesting?" she asked reprovingly, her eyes wide and startled.

"I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Mrs Masters, or to out you as an adulteress" Sherlock began, speaking in a light yet low tone. "But it is vital that you assist us completely with our inquiries, for your own safety, and that of others" he continued, watching her carefully as he spoke. "We believe that this attack was deeply personal, and fuelled by jealousy, rage and feelings of rejection. It is essential that you give us all the facts so that we are able to find this person, bring them to justice, and prevent them from hurting anyone else, yourself included."

"I'm not having an affair" she stated in a low and sombre tone, her eyes not leaving Sherlock's. "Not any more" she added, her voice low and cautious. "I broke it off about four months ago."

"I see" Sherlock stated simply, nodding in understanding. "Can you give me the details of the man you had the affair with?"

"No" she stated simply, shaking her head as she crossed her arms across her chest. For the first time since the interview began, she appeared to be visibly uncomfortable, almost emotional. Joan sought to help her.

"Mrs Masters, we are not going to reveal your activities to your husband" she stated soothingly, in a kind and compassionate tone which drew the victim's eyes to her face. "We just want to help you. And help the other women whose lives this man has claimed."

"You can't know that the person I was with is responsible for... for this" she returned.

"Can't?" Sherlock asked, his expression changing slightly. "Or 'don't'?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, 'don't know' would imply that we are not in possession of enough evidence to convince us of the guilt of your lover. 'Can't' would imply that we are unable to obtain the information we require" he paused for a moment, taking a step towards the bed as he spoke. "You can't be sure that it wasn't him, can you?"

Mrs Masters shook her head defiantly, her chest rising as she breathed in deeply. "I told you, Mr Holmes, I do not recall the person who attacked me. But the person I was with was good and kind and gentle, and completely incapable of such an act."

"Then give us the name of your lover" Sherlock returned simply. "And allow us to exonerate him."

"I can't."

"You can't give us the information or you can't exonerate him?"

"Stop this" she spat, her eyes alight with anger. "Right now."

Before Sherlock could pose his next question, the door behind him opened and Mr Masters re-entered.

"Jessica will be here in a couple hours, sweetheart, she's leaving immediately" he stated, crossing the room quickly and reaching her side. As he sat on the bed, he noticed how visibly tense and agitated she appeared. "Honey, are you okay?"

"Yes, darling. Of course. I'm fine, I-" she paused for a moment, sitting up straight as he sat next to her on the bed, and drew her closer to him with his arm, "these questions have tired me out, is all". She shifted herself in the bed and moved closer to her husband, before turning her head towards Gregson. "Captain, would you mind if we stopped here for today? I don't feel well enough to answer any more questions, and I do not believe that I am able to assist you further in your inquiries."

Gregson nodded slowly, glancing from Sherlock to Joan, before facing the victim directly. "Of course, Mrs Masters, I understand" he stated kindly. "We'll be in touch."

"Of course" she said, leaning into her husband's chest, as she stared vacantly at the wall.

Gregson moved to the door and opened it, allowing Bell to pass through first, before staring imploringly at Sherlock who, after a brief period of hesitation, complied, and left the room. Joan watched the scene between the husband and wife for a few moments, and observed the frightened expression on the victim's face. Whether this was due to the recollection of her attack, or the fears of her infidelity being exposed, Joan was not sure. Either way, she needed help.

"Mrs Masters?" she asked gently, taking a step towards her bed. The calling of her name seemed to draw the tired woman from her reverie, and she turned her head slightly to face Joan, who drew her bag from her shoulder and was reaching inside. She picked out one of her cards, and offered it to Mrs Masters. "If and when you feel ready to talk, about anything" she began, speaking in a kind and soothing manner, "I'm here. And it doesn't have to be related to the case, okay? If you're feeling frightened or worried, or if you need to talk to someone, just call." Mrs Masters rose a shaking hand and accepted the card, drawing it to her chest, before closing her eyes tiredly.

"Thank you, Miss Watson" she breathed, before leaning into her husband once more. Mr Masters smiled kindly at Joan, who nodded in return, before leaving the room.

As Gregson closed the door behind Joan, the four investigators took a few steps down the corridor before beginning their conversation.

"So, what happens now?" Joan asked, aiming her question at Captain Gregson.

"Well, despite her stonewalling us, we still have a lot to go on. This most recent attack has given us a lot to consider. I think we should investigate the crime as we have the others, but that you and your partner should focus on identifying her lover" he stated simply, staring cautiously at Sherlock, who nodded in agreement.

"I quite agree, Captain" Sherlock stated in his normal tone. "Mrs Masters is a very busy woman, whose position means that she spends most of her time at the office. We will begin by investigating any possible links between her and Mr Thompson, before considering who her lover could have been. She almost certainly met him at work, which makes Mr Thompson a possibility, if he ever worked at her company."

"It shouldn't be too difficult to find out" Joan stated. "But it is possible that they met outside of work. He could have been introduced to her by a colleague, or they could have met at a building she went to for a meeting. If you still believe that she is the intended victim, it's possible that their meeting occurred a while ago."

"Yes" Sherlock stated, nodding in response.

"It's also possible that the person she had the affair with is not Mr Thompson, and that they are not the killer" she stated, her tone adopting a tone of reproach which he recognised instantly.

"Yes" he replied after a few moments. "We will investigate all possibilities."

"We will" she stated simply, before directing her attention towards Gregson and Bell. "Did you need us back at the precinct or are you happy for us to work from home?"

"Whatever suits you guys best" Gregson responded. "I can have all the files you need driven to you, so it's fine. As always, call through if you find anything. If not, we'll meet up this evening and discuss everything we have so far. Alright?"

"Yes." She replied.

"That is agreeable, Captain, thank you." Sherlock added, glancing at Joan. "Are you ready, Watson?" Joan nodded in agreement, saying goodbye to her colleagues before following Sherlock through the corridor and from the building.

Sherlock and Joan walked down the corridor in complete silence, each of them taking in the information from their most recent interview. As they passed through the automatic doors and walked towards the taxi rink, Sherlock began to speak.

"Why did you give her your card, Watson?" he asked bluntly, glancing at her with caution.

"What do you mean?" she responded, meeting his confused stare with one of her own.

"The woman was being deceitful, antagonistic and showed little interest in assisting us with our inquiries. So why did you give her your personal contact details?"

"Not for reasons related to the investigation" she replied gently. "She wasn't going to disclose that information regardless of the approach, because she doesn't want her husband or her colleagues to find out about her indiscretion."

"I completely agree" he stated, raising his arm to hail an oncoming taxi. "So why would you give her your card?"

Joan did not respond immediately, and walked towards the parked cab and placed her hand upon the door, before turning back to Sherlock and preparing herself to speak. "Because everyone needs to talk, Sherlock" she stated in a low and gentle manner. "No matter how hard they try to deny it." She watched him for a few moments, gazing into his eyes until she felt unable to do so any longer. She allowed her gaze to fall from his own, and opened the door of the taxi, easing herself inside and closing the door behind her. Sherlock remained outside for a few moments, remaining on the same spot as he watched her solemnly through the window, and began to realise that the distance between them was currently far greater than a simple pain of glass.


	14. Chapter 14

*A/N: Thank you for continuing to read and review this story, your support and input really means a lot, and gives me such strength and encouragement. I really can't express how grateful I am, so thank you. I'm sorry about the infrequent updates, and the complexity of the storyline, but I assure you that the case will be wrapped up within the next five chapters or so, and then the final few chapters after that will deal more directly with the Sherlock/Joan relationship. Although, in three chapters' time, there will be a fairly significant development, which I hope will be satisfactory. Again, if there are any problems with the story or the characters, please let me know, I value your input and your advice, and criticism is appreciated. Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. HQ21

The short amount of time Sherlock and Joan spent in the taxi on the way back to the brownstone passed in complete silence. And yet, it was a remarkable form of silence. It was not awkward or intolerable, or complicated or unpleasant. It was what Sherlock himself would possibly describe as an 'intelligent' silence, because the two people sitting in the back of the cab were vocally quiet, but mentally, they were screaming. Sherlock and Joan were processing the events of the day, as well as considering the current nature of their relationship, and how it was developing and changing alongside the case which they were currently investigating. Usually their cases would last for a few days and then be over, or would be longer, but have a notable period of stagnation, during which time any and all unrelated issues which Sherlock and Joan were facing would be dealt with. But due to the nature of this particular case and the frequency of the attacks, these issues were relegated completely, and banned from conscious discussion.

Instead, Sherlock and Joan were forced to deal with both the complex case and sinister adversary, whilst battling with a plethora of complicated and overwhelming emotions which they were unable to address. There had been times during the case when something would be said, some gesture would be given, or some action would occur, which would cause either one or both of them to be drawn forcefully into the reality of the complexity of their relationship. But these moments had been fleeting, brief, and soon overtaken by a new development in the case. However, as the partners sat stiffly in the back of the taxi, staring either out of the windows or straight ahead of them, they began to realise that they could not continue to avoid the subject which they had been attempting to suppress. Joan had come to this conclusion hours before, during their conversation on the roof. As the taxi pulled up outside the brownstone, and Joan eased herself from the back seat and onto the pavement, she glanced across at Sherlock, and found herself facing an expression which bore the same emotions, concerns and fears which she had herself been battling with on the rooftop earlier that morning.

"Everything okay?" Joan asked casually, but in the same warm and gentle tone which she often adopted when it became clear that Sherlock needed to talk.

Instead of replying verbally to her question, Sherlock simply returned her concerned gaze, before allowing his arms to fall to his sides as he reached the pavement, and the taxi cruised down the street. He watched her for a few moments, before nodding once, and walking quickly up the stairs and into the brownstone. Joan took in a breath of the late morning air, and inhaled slightly, finding herself almost able to taste the freshly-baked bread from the patisserie around the corner. Usually this would be enough to send her walking, briskly and completely on autopilot, in the direction of the comforting scent. But this time, it did not. Joan Watson had no desire to walk away from the brownstone, and even less desire to eat. There was work to do. She opened her languid eyes with great effort, before following Sherlock up the stone steps, closing the brownstone door firmly behind her, and following him into the living area. She took up her usual spot on the red couch, and Sherlock strolled into the kitchen after removing his coat and scarf, which amused Joan slightly. He emerged from the kitchen just moments before a courier sent by Captain Gregson arrived with the files which the partners would need in order to pursue their lines of enquiry. Joan thanked the courier, offering him a grateful smile, before flicking through the files on her way back to the lounge. As she passed through the doorway, she stopped suddenly, finding herself standing just inches from her partner, who was standing tall in the centre of the room, holding an oak tray, which bore two steaming mugs of hot tea.

"Why thank you, Jeeves" Joan stated sweetly, smirking as she set the files down on one of the small tables, and picked up one of the mugs from the tray. It was another attempt by Joan to offer him an olive branch, ensure him that she was not angry. She felt that both their personal and professional endeavours would be greatly assisted by the lightening of the mood. Sherlock looked at her with confusion for a few moments, until the reason for her reference to the eponymous butler became clear, causing the lines on his forehead to disappear.

"Very good, Watson" he stated in an amiable yet low tone, before lifting his own mug of tea from the tray, which he placed on the floor by his armchair. "Shall we begin?"

Sherlock and Joan spent the next few hours absorbing the information in the series of files which Gregson had sent them, as well as pursuing their own methods of research and evaluation. During this time, they collaborated well together, bouncing ideas off of one another and creating several new and memorable aliases in their endeavours. Sherlock and Joan had begun by looking over reports relating to the crime itself, in which Mrs Mathers was attacked. Despite some dissimilarities, it took them just a few minutes to decide that the person who attacked Mrs Mathers was the same person who attacked the other three women, and would prove to be a desperate and incredibly volatile opponent. After having analysed the medical and forensic reports, as well as the witness statements and all available CCTV images, they found that there was just as little physical or tangible evidence in relation to this offence as there had been to its three predecessors: all that was certain was that the attacker's height and weight were consistent with the individual who killed the other three women, and that the stab wounds and weapon used were consistent in all four cases. No finger prints, DNA or physical evidence had been recovered from the scene which was out of place or unidentified. After spending a considerable amount of time analysing the evidence directly linked to the case, Sherlock and Joan changed approach, and began to search for the most recent victim's lover.

"And you still maintain that this lover, who we know exists, is the person behind the attack?" Joan asked, as she took a sip of her third cup of tea in as many hours. "I mean, she seemed fairly certain that he isn't the guy we are looking for."

"As much as a character reference from a cheating spouse is interesting, Watson, it is by no means conclusive. Besides, I have a feeling that Mrs Masters would not have disclosed his name even if she had seen his face during the attack. She seems more concerned about protecting her marriage and her reputation than she does her life" he spoke quickly and in a low tone, flicking through pages in an open file as he did so. "Or anyone else's, for that matter."

"Love can be selfish" Joan stated, her eyes widening once she had realised that she had spoken out loud. Sherlock watched her for a moment, and felt his breath catch in his throat before he was able to respond. She had spoken simply and in a rather off-hand manner, certainly not in a way which struck him as being particularly remonstrative or critical of him. Besides, such a way was not Joan's style. She was not underhand, or the type to make snide or cruel comments. And yet, her remark puzzled him greatly.

"You think it was love?" Sherlock asked incredulously, looking up at her from his file. Joan met his gaze confidently, but permitted herself some time to consider her next words carefully before she spoke.

"I think that the desire to protect someone, even if it benefits the protector in some way, is love" she reasoned, speaking slowly yet with conviction. "A form of it, at least." Sherlock stared at her with wide eyes for a moment, and fought back the feelings of sickness and anxiety which had swept over him. Perhaps Watson had gained more from their conversation on the rood than he had initially realised.

"You believe that Mrs Mathers is in love with her office play-thing?" Sherlock asked, returning his attention to his file, and flicking absent-mindedly through the pages of the report which he was reading for a fifth time. The thought of making such an unwilling comparison between his and Joan's relationship, and the one between the married woman and her lover, troubled him deeply. And yet, he was keen to understand Joan's reasoning, and to gauge her response.

"I don't know" Joan said eventually, dropping the file she was holding gently onto her lap. "I just think that the extent to which she is keen to protect a person who we believe to be worthy of official attention is... it doesn't make complete sense. I get her not wanting the affair to come to light, sure. But still, something doesn't seem quite right."

"You mustn't forget, Watson, that Mrs Mathers stated that _she_ was the one who ended the relationship. She can't have been that _in love_" Sherlock stated simply, pronouncing the last two words with clear scepticism, "if she ended the illicit affair."

"Perhaps" Joan said simply, running her finger down the spine of the recently discarded file, before picking it up again and beginning to read it. Before Sherlock had a chance to respond, Joan removed her glasses and began to speak. "Okay, so as we discussed earlier, the demanding nature of Mrs Mathers' job, combined with the fact that she is a resolute workaholic, means that she almost certainly met her lover at the office. In the past twelve months, Mrs Mathers has worked with ten male employees, of different ages, ranks and positions, but all working for her company and in her building. In the time since, six have remained with her, two resigned, one was transferred and another was fired. I'd say that, as the relationship ended, and due to her clear fears of the relationship being exposed, it is highly unlikely that any of the men remaining in her employment are the man she was seeing."

"I agree" Sherlock stated simply, before giving her a warm and encouraging look. "Go on, Watson."

"Now, the other four men are all possibles. But the two who transferred left over six months ago, and actually both moved out of state. The first guy is in Ohio, and the second is in Virginia. Mrs Mathers claimed that she ended the affair four months ago, which would seem to exonerate these two from our enquiries" she stated confidently, flicking through some pages of her file, before selecting the file beneath it and continuing to speak. "The remaining two are Kent Jackson and Riley Pierce. Kent Jackson was transferred to a different company seven months ago, due to an offer of a more senior position. It's not in the time range and he did not leave for personal reasons, but for ones which were very much professional. However, this last guy looks quite promising" she stated, running her finger down the edge of the page as she spoke. "Riley Pierce was dismissed from his position at Mrs Mathers' financial firm three months ago, for what is described as being "regrettable conduct" and "personal and professional malpractice"."

"Which you believe is accountant-speak for 'brushing the affair under the carpet'?" Sherlock asked, his eyes widening with interest at the possibility. "Very good, Watson. It certainly has potential." He stated simply, reaching for his tablet and typing for a few seconds, before nodding in satisfaction and turning the screen to face Joan. "Mr Pierce now works for a rival accountancy firm in Manhattan, which is situated less than six blocks from Mrs Mathers' apartment" he stated confidently, before turning the screen back towards him, and scrolling through the information. "And from the picture of him in his staff profile, he certainly appears to be tall and slim." Joan glanced towards the image and considered it for a few seconds before nodding in agreement.

"So where does that leave us with Jake?" she asked in a low and apprehensive tone.

"As you said before, Watson. This man may be her lover and the killer, or he could just be her lover. It is even possible that he is her lover, and that he is uninvolved in her attack. However, we will not be able to prove or disprove any of these statements without interviewing the man in question."W

"Yeah, well, that's gonna have to be put on hold for a while." She stated simply, glancing at her watch. She looked up to find Sherlock looking at her with an expression of the utmost perplexity. "We're meeting Gregson and Bell in thirty minutes. We can discuss our findings with them, and see what information the police are able to obtain on Mr Pierce, before rushing in. It's almost four, we should get ready." Sherlock nodded in assent as Joan rose from the sofa, before she walked stealthily up the stairs and changed her clothes, and arriving in the foyer a few minutes later. Sherlock was standing tall, his coat buttoned and his scarf tied loosely about his neck. As soon as he saw her, he selected her favourite black coat from the rail, and assisted her with it. As she felt his strong hand on her shoulders, and moving slowly down her upper arms, she found herself quivering slightly at the contact. She inhaled deeply, forcing these feelings aside, before walking past him and towards the door, before passing into the open street. Joan hailed a cab, held the door open for Sherlock, who watched her with amusement and wariness, insisting that she get in first. She complied willingly, and found herself both flattered and slightly embarrassed by his chivalry. They travelled through the bustling city and towards the precinct, where Gregson and Bell were eagerly awaiting their arrival.

Sherlock and Joan were greeted pleasantly by Gregson and Bell, who led them through to the now painfully familiar room which they found themselves working in. As soon as she stepped into the small, cramped space, and found the faces of the women before and after their attacks, and images of the man the police believed to be responsible, pinned to boards and looming over her, she was reminded of why she preferred to work at the brownstone. However, her senses was drawn from the boards and to the familiar and comforting scent which was filling the room, and flooding her senses.

"I got us take-out" Bell stated simply, pushing some brown paper bags with handles across the table and by the seats which would soon be occupied by Sherlock and Joan. "I didn't know which you guys preferred, but I remembered Holmes here speaking fondly of Cantonese food, so I got us that."

"Thank you" Joan responded warmly, as Sherlock walked ahead of her and towards the table, placing one finger inside the bag and opening it cautiously, peering inside like a nervous puppy being offered a treat. Joan watched this with amusement, smiling absent-mindedly to herself, before crossing the room and taking up a seat next to Sherlock. Gregson and Bell sat at the opposite end of the table, and they began to discuss their findings, as each of them delved into the comfortingly-scented bags before them. In the hour that followed, Gregson and Bell informed the partners that the forensics and medical reports revealed little more than they already knew about the attack. The only new piece of information was the presence of small shards of thin glass in the scalp of the victim which, after some investigation, were identified as having come from one of the framed wedding photographs, which had been destroyed.

"So you think she was struck with a photo frame?" Joan asked, flicking through one of the files and picking out some of the photographs of the crime scene which featured the frames.

"Seems odd that she didn't mention it, don't you think?" Sherlock asked, as Joan passed him one of the photographs. Their fingers brushed together for a moment, causing a pleasant tingling sensation to travel throughout both parties.

"Not necessarily" Joan breathed. "She may not have remembered it happening. She did sustain trauma to the head, and was unconscious for several hours."

"Yes, but she recalled with impressive ability some of the events of that night, including being struck with an ash tray and pushed against the shelving unit. So why is it that she can recall these events, but not the one with the frames?" he asked, holding the photograph up to Joan for emphasis. Joan studied the image for a moment, and found her gaze falling to the attractive young couple in the photograph, the beautiful bride and the overjoyed groom.

"You think she was struck with that object because it represents the happiness of her married life. The life she had away from the attacker?" Joan posited, speaking as if she did not have faith in the words. "You think her lover attacked her. That he saw these pictures, which enraged them, and so he struck her with them?"

"I think it's a possibility we can't afford to overlook" Sherlock responded simply, placing the crime scene photo back into the file. "It would also explain why she was so forthcoming with other details of the night, but not this one. She knew what it represented, why she was hit with it. Her attacker probably made his reason for doing so quite clear. They may have even argued about it."

"So by disclosing the fact that she was struck by the frame, she would be disclosing the fact that the attack was personal, and that she knew who committed it?" Joan asked, her voice notably more confident and assured. The room was quiet for a moment whilst the inhabitants processed the latest piece of information. "It doesn't change much, you know. Her lack of total disclosure does not make her any less of a victim."

"No, but it does impede our investigation" Sherlock responded, in the tone he used when he was trying to suppress his annoyance and frustration. "Her desires to protect her job and her reputation are preventing her from disclosing vital information in an ongoing murder investigation."

Joan understood what he was saying, but felt frustrated nevertheless. She felt that his criticism of someone who would not be completely honest about their romantic interests, history and intentions was highly hypocritical. As soon as this thought entered her head, she tried to push it out immediately. She knew that she was doing Sherlock a disservice, and that comparing their current situation to Mrs Mathers' was hugely unfair. But at the same time, the sentiment was the same. The issue that was appearing in both their professional lives, and their personal ones, was that the refusal to acknowledge or discuss romantic links and relationships is detrimental to personal and professional progression. And for someone so smart and so aware, Joan was surprised that Sherlock seemed to be completely oblivious to this.

As these thoughts were running through her head, Joan had become notably distracted, and her body had tensed. Sherlock glanced to the side and observed her for a short while, noting how her eyes had grown wide and glassy, and her posture was revealing her emotional displeasure and discomfort. He narrowed his eyes in confusion as he continued to watch her, before running his eyes quickly across her body, as if surveying her entirely would give him the answers that he was looking for. Sherlock continued to watch her for a few moments as he considered the last few words they exchanged, and found himself coming to a conclusion which startled him slightly. She had been comparing him and his actions to Mrs Mathers and her own. Sherlock pondered this for a few moments and, after having moved past the initial stages of shock and bewilderment, he came to realise that her conclusions and her concerns were not completely unfounded. He allowed his guilty gaze to fall from her body, and he turned to face Gregson instead who was, unsurprisingly, watching Sherlock with a confused and vacant expression. Bell, who was flicking through some files from his position next to Gregson, was completely oblivious to this entire scene. Before Gregson had a chance to pose a question, which Sherlock felt certain he would not have the least desire to answer, the consulting detective turned back to face Joan, and posed a question of his own.

"Watson, would you assist me for a moment?" he asked in a quick yet cautious manner, earning her immediate and undivided attention. "I wish to run through an idea with you."

Joan watched him curiously for a moment, and felt fear grip her. Sherlock was clearly feeling uncomfortable, and she felt certain that whatever it was that was causing his concerns was linked to his request. And yet, as he looked at her with his large, bright eyes, she was certain that she saw something that she recognised, and that pained her each time she saw it in his features. She saw fear.

"Of course" she stated in a low and gentle tone, before closing the file in front of her and pushing her seat back. Sherlock followed her example, and within seconds they were both standing at the end of the table, and facing the confused expressions of the police officers.

"I require Miss Watson's opinion on a certain point, gentlemen" Sherlock began, speaking in a casual and conversational tone. "It is vital that her response to my questions are her own, and are not influenced by anything which either of you consciously or unconsciously say or do" he stated confidently, focusing his attention on Captain Gregson as he spoke the last few words. "We will not be long." He stated, before stepping aside from his chair and walking from the room.

Joan watched him for a moment, before following him from the room and across the precinct. Sherlock was leading her somewhere, although she did not know where. The corridor they walked down, and the door they were approaching, were both unfamiliar to her. It was not until Sherlock reached the door and held it open for her that she found herself fully aware of where they were. To the left of the door was a small, dark green plaque with the words 'To the roof' and an arrow pointing upwards on it. Joan glanced at this for a moment, before giving Sherlock a puzzled expression. The consulting detective simply responded by holding the door open slightly wider, until Joan took a few steps forwards and passed through. Joan found herself facing a tall metal staircase, with rusted bannisters and deathly-looking steps. She stared at the horror film-esque scene before her for a few seconds, and remained perfectly still for a few seconds, until she felt Sherlock's presence just beside her. At that moment, she took a deep breath and walked towards the staircase, holding on to the bannister carefully as she ascended, never once looking back.

Sherlock followed Joan closely behind, and could feel his heart beating faster in his chest with each step they took closer to their destination. He knew that Joan was right, and that they needed to talk. He had been considering her words almost constantly over the past few days, on a mental loop, as she too had been considering his. He had meant to talk to her, of course. To clear the air, to complete the conversation which she felt he had dismissed almost entirely. But he did not know how, or when, or even if it was a good idea. But after hearing her speak about romance and compassion, and having seen the expression on her face which betrayed her sadness, he felt unable to delay the subject any longer. Not for his own benefit, of course. But for hers. Always for hers.

They reached the top of the steps in a matter of moments, and Joan reached out her hands to the cold metal door before her, pushing it with force until it gradually groaned open. Joan drew her open coat across her body, crossing her arms as she took a few cautious steps onto the roof space. It was not as large or as grand as the rooftop boasted by the brownstone, but its scenic and picturesque views were stunning. Joan continued to walk forwards several steps, watching as the deep orange and magenta skies beneath the setting sun swam across the Manhattan skyline. The sky was a deep shade of blue, and the colours of the setting sun added a level of warmth and beauty which were beyond expression and beyond words, and detracted completely from the barrenness of the rooftop. The rooftop above the precinct was not as large or as grand, and was in fact a small square, about six meters square in size, and covered completely in weathered gravel, which crunched beneath heir footsteps. Joan allowed her gaze to fall from the magnificent view as she surveyed her new surroundings which, as well as gravel and aged cinder blocks, boasted broken wooden crates, discarded bricks, and several broken radios. As Joan glanced back towards the view which this idyllic location had to offer, she found herself completely lost in her thoughts, until the sound of crunching gravel behind her drew her regretfully from her reverie.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock began, in a low and slightly anxious tone as he stood beside Joan. "I've only been here twice before, when evading the Captain" he stated lightly, clasping his hands together behind his back, and shifting on his feet as he spoke. "But never at night."

"You have now" she responded in a warm and comforting tone, as she turned her head to face him. "What do you think?"

"I think..." he began hesitantly, lowering his head slightly to meet her gaze. "That you and I have much to discuss."

"Okay" Joan drawled, nodding slowly and encouragingly at him. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Well, I... I seem to recall a certain conversation that began on a rooftop" he began nervously, watching as realisation crossed her features. "A conversation which, if memory serves, was not completed."

"Or started, really" Joan countered, smiling warmly at him. "And I'm sorry that I put you in a difficult position. I know how hard this is for you."

"Please, Watson, do not apologise. If anything, I am the one who should be apologising to you" Sherlock began, turning his head away from her, and staring ahead as he spoke. "On one of the few occasions that you required me to actually listen to you about something you were incredibly concerned about, I was... I was dismissive, unkind and cad-ish, really" he stated in a low and sombre tone. "And for that I am truly sorry."

Joan took in a breath of the late evening air, allowing it to fill her body and rejuvenate her completely. She considered his words for a moment, and was grateful for them, if not somewhat surprised. But she could not help but think that there was something that he was not telling her.

"Thank you, Sherlock" she began in a gentle and soothing tone, which warmed his heart. "It means a lot to me that you felt it necessary to apologise" she paused for a moment, considering her next words carefully before continuing. "But I think it is important that you realise that I'm sorry too, and that I owe you an apology." Sherlock turned to look at her, uncrossing his hands from behind his back and allowing them to fall to his side, as he continued to watch her with confusion. "I put you in a difficult position, and forced you into discussing something that you were not ready to talk about."

"Watson, you... you didn't force me, and I was ready" he stated, surprised by both his words and their conviction. "And that was what threw me, if I am being honest."

"That you didn't feel forced?"

"That I was ready." He responded immediately, in a low and breathless tone. "Watson, I... I did not-" Sherlock began nervously, before breaking off mid-sentence and considering the best way in which to word his statement. "I was not as... unwilling to discuss the subject as I indicated this morning. Nor was I as averse to what you were implying... what you were suggesting, really".

Joan watched him for a few moments, tilting her head to the side slightly as she observed his nervous features and uneasy countenance. She wished to soothe him, placate his fragile nerves. But she found this difficult at the present moment, as she was not completely sure of what he was talking about. "I don't understand" she said in a low and simple tone, as she continued to watch him inquisitively, and waited patiently for him to continue.

I'm sorry, Watson, I... I just... it's difficult, you understand."Sherlock inhaled deeply, and shifted slightly on the spot, before turning from her once more and beginning to speak. "You were quite right earlier, with what you were suggesting about Mrs Mathers' possible motivations for refusing to disclose her lover's identity, but also, and more importantly, for the reasons they broke up. Or, more accurately, the _possible_ reasons for their break up." Sherlock turned to face her at that moment, and found that she was watching him with a warm and pleasant expression, and nodded encouragingly for him to continue. "You were right, also, when you stated that sometimes, people do not... do not end relations or relationships, because of displeasure" he paused again, turning from her once more. "Sometimes, Watson, they prevent them from continuing, or even beginning, properly, at least, because they fear displeasure."

Joan was frozen to the spot for a moment, and felt slightly unsteady on her feet. She was struggling to process his words, and their meaning. But she understood, and she accepted his feelings. She had to, and she would. Sherlock evidently sensed her discomfort, and turned to face her directly, his eyes wide with realisation.

"Watson, no, I... I do not mean that I feared displeasure at the prospect of being with you" he stated in a kind and soothing tone, which caused her to raise her eyes to meet his adoring gaze. "I... I believed that it was I who would cause the displeasure. To you."

Joan stared at him for a moment, her lips parting slightly as if she were preparing herself to speak. But she found herself utterly incapable of processing any more words, let alone speaking them. "I... I ju-" she began, turning from his for a moment, before facing him directly and returning his gaze with a renewed sense of confidence and self-assurance. "Why would you think that, Sherlock?"

"Watson, you must realise by now that I-" he broke off once more, and chewed on his bottom lip in frustration, as he found himself feeling increasingly unstable and incapable of conveying exactly what it was that he wished to say. "Our partnership, as it stands, already causes some... some issues, yes?" he stated simply, to which Joan nodded hesitantly in response. "Issues which are, granted, almost always caused by myself. But still, the points remains that, at some point in the future, as we have viewed from several occasions in the past... I will disappoint you."

Joan's eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat, and she took a step closer to him. He appeared to be settling his nerves slightly, and was speaking in a much less shaky and much more assured manner. "Sherlock-" she stated gently and soothingly, reaching out her hand so that it rested on his forearm. "Over the two years we have known each other, you have annoyed me, you have frustrated me, you have even angered me on a couple of occasions" she stated simply, as she felt his body tense beneath her grasp. "But you have never once disappointed me." She spoke this last statement slowly, pronouncing each word carefully, as she felt him relax beneath her fingertips.

Sherlock stared at her with wide and glassy eyes, lowering his head slightly as he swallowed, before turning from her and facing ahead once more. Joan removed her arm from his and took a step back so that she was by his side, and waited patiently for him to speak.

"Another issue with our partnership, Watson" he began cautiously, drumming the fingers on his right hand upon his thigh. "Is the danger that you are in, almost constantly." His eyes lowered from the skyline to the ground, and he stared at the gravel as he spoke. "If we were to-" he broke off, nodding slightly as he continued to speak. "If the nature of our relationship were to change, you would be placed in even greater danger" he stated in a low and sombre tone. Joan did not respond to his statement, regardless of how much she wanted to. Instead, she simply waited for him to continue. "You are a target because of our work, but if we were to become romantically involved, you would be placed in more danger, and that would be because of me."

Joan watched Sherlock with concern and wariness, before realisation swept across her features. She felt as though she now had a perfect grasp as to the reasons behind his unusual behaviour, his evasiveness, and his apparent unwillingness to discuss their relationship.

"A few weeks ago, I was almost murdered by a French criminal organisation" she said simply, wrapping her coat tightly around her as she stared ahead of her. She waited until Sherlock turned fully towards her, and was watching her with interest and confusion, before she continued to speak. "And a just this morning, when I was out running, I almost stepped out in front of a cab before I had even gone three blocks." She turned to face Sherlock directly, meeting his confused gaze with a look of confidence which she had not before now realised that she was capable of producing. "You and I are in danger every single day. As are the police, the criminals and the civilians of this city. Of the world, in fact" she stated, gesturing broadly with one of her arms, before drawing her coat even tighter to her chest, and staring at Sherlock with an incredible intensity. "And yet here we stand." Sherlock had been watching her with an expression of confusion and uncertainty, which was shifting slightly as Joan continued to speak. "Sherlock, with what we do, you and I will always be in danger. What we do puts us in a higher risk category than most other people, but we still do it. If we were afraid of the danger, we wouldn't be doing what we are doing" she spoke kindly and gently, before tilting her head slightly to look up at him. "Is there another kind of danger you are worried about?"

"I don't want to hurt you" he said simply, in a low and husky tone. "I could not bear it, Watson. For you to get hurt. And certainly not if it were of my own doing."

"What makes you think that you would hurt me?" she asked slowly, looking up at him as he prepared himself to answer.

"I have been with women in the past, as you know. In both physical and emotional relationships" he stated, shifting on the spot as he spoke. "And we both know what happens in those relationships, and how they end."

"Are you offering to pay me?" Joan asked lightly, but with a deadpan look and vacant expression. Sherlock turned towards her, shocked at the suggestion, before narrowing his eyes in understanding, and exhaling quickly.

"Very good, Watson" he stated, before turning back to her, and finding himself faced with the familiar look of Joan attempting to suppress a smile. "But, in all seriousness, we both know where this will lead."

"That's just it, Sherlock" she stated simply, and in a tone which gained his complete and immediate attention. "We don't. We can't know. And we can leave it like that, if you want" she stated, in as even and as kind a tone as she was capable of, despite the fact that the words were breaking her heart. "I don't want to hurt you either, Sherlock. And I want you to be happy. I really do. And I want you to want that too" she stated kindly, and with such earnestness and conviction that it took everything Sherlock had to control himself. "Whatever it is that we decide to do, we will deal with. After everything we have done, and seen, and been through, I know that we can recover from this. Whether that means going back to the way things were, or exploring something new, we will do it together, Sherlock" she stated kindly, with warmth and conviction heavy in her tone. "And we will be alright." Sherlock nodded in response to her statement, before continuing to stare ahead at the skyline. Joan allowed her gaze to fall from his face, and she too watched as the sun set, and the beautiful, autumnal colours which graced the evening danced in the skies. As she enjoyed this beautiful sight before her, and basked in the company she was currently enjoying, she suddenly felt completely at ease. Her attention was drawn away from this sight by a familiar sensation in her hand, which she identified much quicker than she had before. Joan lowered her gaze from the skies immediately, and case her glance down towards her right hand, which Sherlock was holding in his own. Her gaze remained fixed upon this sight for a few moments, before she turned her head up to face Sherlock, who was watching her with a look which she had seen only a handful of times before, and one which made her heart begin to race with anticipation.

"You make me happy, Watson" he stated, squeezing her hand gently, as she offered him a small smile.

"You make me happy too" she returned, as she squeezed his hand in return, before leaning into his arm, and resting her head beside his shoulder blade. Sherlock and Joan remained standing like this, their hands entwined, their bodies pressed together, as they watched with wonder the changing sights before them.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Thank you so much for your support and your input, it really has helped me in planning these chapters. I saw that you seemed to want some more Joanlock, so this chapter is dedicated almost exclusively to that. If there are any issues please let me know, and I will attempt to make sure they do not arise in future chapters. Also, I notice that the fact I have written this story around a case has also been discussed, and I was just wondering how you feel about it? And whether the issue is the way I am writing the case, or the fact that more Joanlock is wanted? The case itself will be wrapped up in the next couple of chapters, with the killer being revealed in the next chapter. Again, thank you for your continued support, it really means a lot. Any criticism/comments are greatly appreciated, and I try to take them on board. I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and please don't hesitate to let me know if there is something you aren't happy with.

Thanks, HQ21 xxx

Sherlock and Joan remained on the roof for several minutes, basking in the dim evening light, and the beautiful scenes before them. As the warm light glowed amid the harsh winter evening, Sherlock found himself tilting his head slowly towards her own, which was resting by his shoulder blade. He hesitated momentarily, before leaning towards her and placing a chaste kiss upon her forehead. Although the kiss was delicate and quite innocent, he allowed his lips to rest on the cool forehead for a couple of seconds, before turning from her. As he did so, his nose brushed the top of her forehead, and Joan shivered in anticipation. She did not speak or react immediately, and for a moment Sherlock was concerned that he had offended her, or made her feel uncomfortable in some way. His fears were soon alleviated by his companion, who turned her body towards him, placed her free hand gently upon his rising chest, and kissed the bottom of his jaw. Sherlock closed his eyes at the contact, and unconsciously tightened his grip upon Joan's hand, as turned slightly on the spot, applying slightly more pressure with her free hand, and planted another kiss upon him.

The second kiss was higher than the previous one, applied at the bottom of his cheek. Sherlock sighed contently, and Joan could feel his heart racing beneath her fingertips. Sherlock reacted immediately to her actions, removing his hand from hers, and placing it on her lower back. As he ran his hand gradually up the silky material of her shirt, Joan continued to plant small kisses upon his cheek. She sighed audibly at the contact of his soft hand up her back, as he pressed her body gently to his own. Her breath caught in her throat as she kissed him again, by the corner of his mouth, which caused his eyes to snap open in anticipation. He found himself staring down at Joan, whose eyes were wide and breath was fast, as she leaned towards him once more. Sherlock bent his head slightly, and rose his free hand to cup her cheek, as she tilted her face slightly so that they could kiss. Before their lips could meet, the partners were disturbed by the sound of the heavy door groaning open from behind. They both reacted immediately and in the same manner, disentangling themselves from each other, placing their hands by their sides, and turning on the spot to face the door, where the familiar silhouette of Detective Bell was standing, oblivious to the conversation or activities of the previous minutes.

"There you guys are" he began, tugging his coat across his shoulders as he strolled haplessly towards them. "We were wondering where you'd got to. A couple of the officers said they saw you guys head up here" he continued casually, flashing them a confused and inquisitive glance. "What are you doing up here?"

"Enjoying the view, Detective" Sherlock stated immediately, as he placed his hands in his pockets and leaned forward slightly. "It is quite beautiful up here" he stated in a low and slightly husky tone. Joan picked up on the statement, and its reference to her, and found herself blushing slightly. She wrapped her arms around her and looked towards the floor for a moment, before tilting her head up to meet the gaze of the oblivious detective standing before them.

"Has something happened?" Joan asked simply, pursing her lips together as she shifted slightly on the spot. After leaving Sherlock's embrace, she found herself acutely aware of how cold she was, and how much she longed for his touch.

"Nothing ground-breaking, unfortunately" Bell began, placing his hands in his coat pockets, and addressing Sherlock and Joan. "The Captain and I talked to Jake Thompson, who denies knowing the latest victim, despite the fact that they were in a very similar line of work."

"The field of finance is a broad and complex one, detective" Sherlock returned, speaking in his usual animated manner. "And the city itself is just the same. It is quite possible that Mr Thompson is telling the truth, and that he is not acquainted with Mrs Mathers."

"You think he's innocent?" Bell asked, incredulity present in his voice.

"I can't be sure" Sherlock stated, his tone lowering slightly. "But I do not believe that he was Mrs Mathers' lover."

"Why's that?" Bell returned, scepticism still apparent in his tone.

"He wouldn't be her type" Sherlock stated simply. "Not by a long-shot. From whatis evident about his rap sheet and his general attitude and demeanour, Mr Thompson is an obsessive. I'd imagine that he is clingy, single-minded and emotionally demanding. A woman of Mrs Mathers' disposition and position would not be able to withstand such a relationship."

"Maybe that's why she left him?" Joan offered, turning slightly towards Sherlock as she spoke.

"Mr Thompson is also, as we have already gathered, in possession of attitudes and tendencies in relation to stalking and occasional violence. A woman who had been involved with him for any period of time would soon pick up signs of these tendencies, and would therefore be unlikely to describe him as positively as Mrs Mthters described her lover from her hospital bed" Sherlock stated, removing one hand from his pocket and gesturing as he spoke. "However, we do have one possible suspected lover, who we will investigate further. And regardless of this, the fact that Jake Thompson is not Mrs Mathers' lover does not necessarily mean that he is not her attacker. Nor does it make him innocent of the three murders."

"But you said yourself that the latest attack was one more personal than the rest, and that Mrs Mathers was the intended victim" Bell began, speaking slowly and enunciating each word. "If they aren't lovers, and you do not believe that they are acquainted, then how can he possibly be the guy we are looking for? "

"Quite frankly, detective, I don't believe that he is." Bell opened his mouth to speak, before closing it again and shaking his head, and taking a few steps closer to Sherlock.

"The evidence against this guy is... I mean, he's practically gift wrapped!" Bell stated, raising one hand in exasperation, before pacing across the roof. "Could he have an accomplice?"

"No, detective. A crime of this nature, with such personal undertones, are the work of one very obsessive and very angry individual." Sherlock returned.

"You don't think he committed any of the murders?" Joan asked tentatively, wrapping her arms around her chest as she spoke.

"No." He replied sombrely, tilting his head to face her. "I believe that Mr Thompson is not only innocent, but that he is being framed."

"Framed?" Bell repeated, turning on the spot and facing Sherlock directly.

"Who would want to frame him?"

"It isn't necessarily a question of who would _want_ to frame him, but who _could_ frame him."

"I don't understand." Bell stated, his voice low and full of intrigue.

"The person we are looking for, detective, is highly intelligent, efficient and capable. They are also filled with a high degree of rage and anguish which, as we have already established, was directed at Mrs Mathers. Now, before getting to her, they attacked several other women. The killer treated this as both an emotional and physical outlet, as well as a series of 'practice runs', if you will. Now, although these women were selected due to their physical appearance to the true target, Mrs Mathers, they are also connected by two other things. Occupation, and Mr Thompson." Sherlock paused for a moment, taking a breath as he considered the wary faces of Joan and Detective Bell. "We have already established several links, some tenuous, between two of the three victims and Mr Thompson. If there is a link between the victims..."

"There is a link to the killer" Joan stated, turning towards Sherlock with a look of resolution on her face. "You think Jake knows the killer."

"I do" Sherlock stated with conviction. "Although I do not believe he is fully aware of it."

"If he knew, surely he'd say" Bell stated incredulously. "I mean, I'd imagine he'd be fairly happy to get off a triple murder charge."

"Oh I should think he would, detective" Sherlock returned, burying his hands in the depths of his pockets once more. "But he is, at this moment, completely oblivious as to the true identity of the killer" he stated, glancing from Bell to Joan. "As are we."

"So what do we know?" Bell asked, his head spinning and his mind racing.

"We know that the person we are looking for has some knowledge of Mr Thompson, and who is also acquainted with at least two of the victims." Sherlock began, speaking clearly and concisely. "There will be an overlap somewhere, detective. Between the lives of the killer and of Mr Thompson. In order to find that link, we must analyse his relationships with all of the victims."

"We should look into the possibility of the killer being one of his colleagues" Joan began, speaking with confidence. "I mean, I know that he's freelance, but he may have needed consultations or some form of assistance. Someone who accompanied him on various errands or jobs in the companies where the victims worked? An intern, an auditor, someone like that?"

"Possibly" Sherlock agreed. "It would certainly be a good place to start." Joan nodded slowly in assent, before raising her hand to her mouth, and closing her eyes as she stifled a yawn. "You've had quite a day, Watson. I believe we should retire."

"No, no, I'm fine" she stated, removing her hand from her mouth and leaning back slightly, allowing the cool night air to brush lightly over her face, which refreshed her slightly. "We need to look into Jake's records, and cross reference them with-"

"The only thing you are cross-referencing this evening is the time it takes to return to the brownstone with the time it takes for your favourite take-out to arrive" Sherlock stated in a gentle tone. "You are tired, Watson. We should return home, rest, possibly look over some files after eating, and then return to the precinct in the morning." Sherlock was not ready to retire for the night, as his mind was racing with possibilities, and the confusion and inconsistencies in this case, and the nature of the crimes and the person committing them, vexed him. But Joan was exhausted, and they had both had a long day, personally and professionally. He felt that it would be best for them both if they returned to the sanctity of the brownstone, and continued their conversation or their work from there. It was partly for his benefit, but mainly for hers. Almost exclusively for hers.

Joan sighed slightly, crossing her arms close to her chest as she considered his argument. In truth, she was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than a long bath and an early night. She had not felt particularly hungry, but as soon as Sherlock mentioned take-out, visions of Thai food began to float into her mind, and she found herself experiencing pangs of hunger which she had not realised that she had been suppressing.

"Alright" she stated simply, nodding slowly as she faced forward. Sherlock watched her for a moment, before turning to face forward and beginning to walk towards the door.

"Excellent" he stated, strolling across the roof. "We will get a taxi immediately, and can order the food from the car" he stated as he reached the door. He placed on hand on the handle and was about to turn it, before realising what he had said, and how authoritative his tone had been. He drummed his fingers lightly on the door handle for a moment, before turning to face Joan, who had taken a few small steps towards him. "Is that satisfactory?"

"Of course" she stated simply, offering him a small and tired smile, as she and Bell walked towards the door together. Sherlock nodded slowly, before opening the door and passing into the comparative warmth of the precinct, and holding the door open for Bell and Joan, who passed through it in that order. As he turned to close the door, Sherlock found his glance drifting over to the spot where he and Joan had just shared a tender embrace. As his eyes danced over the spot, he found himself mourning the loss of her lips upon his cheek, her hand upon his chest, and her body pressed tightly against his own. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his thigh for a moment, before turning quickly on the spot, closing the door behind him before descending the murderous steps.

Sherlock and Joan arrived home shortly after eight o'clock in the evening, and greeted the take-out delivery man on their stoop. Joan strolled casually up the stairs towards him, handing him some cash, as Sherlock dealt with the taxi. She accepted the food from him, thanking him and wishing him a pleasant evening. The smell of the food was mesmerising, and Joan found herself gravitating towards the door with her key before Sherlock had even reached the bottom step. They ate together in front of the fire, sharing the delicious food and immersing themselves in pleasurable and non-work related conversation. Sherlock was sitting in his favourite arm chair, and Joan was perched amidst a small nest of cushions and blankets on the floor near the fire, which comforted her greatly. She found that the heat emitted from the flames was actually soothing to her shoulder injury, and tilted her arm towards it as she and Sherlock spoke. After what felt like no time at all, the partners realised that almost three hours had passed. Joan yawned as she glanced at the time on her cell phone, before forcing herself out of the small nest she had built on the ground, and standing unsteadily on her feet. She glanced tiredly around the room, which was bathed solely in the dim yellow light from the fire, as she tried to focus her attention upon her companion, who was sitting just a few feet in front of her.

"You are quite tired, Watson" he stated, glancing towards her face as she surveyed the floor, and began to nudge the now empty food containers into a small pile, using just the side of her foot. "You should rest. I will tidy the brownstone, and look into the files which Captain Gregson kindly gave me. I shall see if I can discern the link between Mr Thompson and any individuals with vengeful and murderous intentions. And tomorrow, we will arrange to meet with Mr Pierce, the man you so astutely discovered to have been recently dismissed from his position in Mrs Mathers' company" he stated in a low and gentle tone, in a voice which Joan found to be both soothing and compelling. "But right now, I must insist that you rest."

Joan placed one hand on her hip and the other over her mouth, as she found herself stifling another yawn. As she felt her yawn ending, she nodding slowly towards Sherlock, before removing her hand from her face and opening her eyes. When she did so, she was surprised to find him standing just a couple of feet in front of her. He had moved quickly and silently towards her whilst she yawned, and she found herself feeling revitalised by his current proximity. For a moment, she forgot her tiredness almost completely.

"Goodnight, my dear Watson" he stated in a low and breathless manner, before placing one hand on her shoulder and planting a kiss lightly upon her forehead, in a familiar motion which Joan delighted in. She closed her eyes for a moment, as his lips left her forehead, and he took a step back. Joan opened her eyes just as his hand regretfully relinquished its gentle hold on her shoulder.

"Goodnight" she returned, in a tired and gentle voice. Despite her exhaustion, her eyes sparkled with wariness and alertness, and Sherlock found himself gazing into their depths. He nodded slowly towards her, keeping his eyes fixed upon her tired frame as she slowly walked from the room, picking up some of her belongings as she left. As soon as he had seen her reach the top of the stairs, Sherlock moved back to his armchair and picked up a small stack of files from the ground. As he opened the first file, he found himself pausing for a moment, and briefly considering the events of the day which had just passed. He closed the file for a moment, and reached for his tablet, which was beside his feet. He picked it up and began to type quickly and with precision, scrolling carefully down before finding precisely what he was looking for. He smiled to himself for a moment, before casting a small glance towards the empty doorway. He nodded in satisfaction, before clicking on the relevant link, and preparing to place his order.

The next couple of days passed by with very little progress in terms of the case. However, despite being fairly unproductive, the days had been long and relentless. Sherlock and Joan assisted the police in research, interviews, dead-ends and even a stake-out which came to nothing at all. During this time, they interviewed Riley Pierce, the man who was fired by Mrs Mathers a few months ago, and found that the reasons for his dismissal were, in all likelihood, completely understandable. He was as uncooperative and arrogant a person as Sherlock and Joan had ever had the displeasure of meeting. But, unfortunately, the Machiavellian chauvinist had an air-tight alibi for not only Mrs Mathers' attack, but for two of the three murders too. After a particularly draining three-hour interview with him, Sherlock and Joan had retreated back to the brownstone, where they continued to read files relating to other former male employees of Mrs Mathers, as well as other people who came to see her on behalf of other companies, but their search seemed to be fruitless. They were no closer to identifying her lover than they had been since first realising his existence. And so, at the end of the second day, they once again spent some time together in the living room, before the half-conscious Joan was prompted to bed by Sherlock. Due to her tiredness and the fact that her mind was alight with possibilities, both professional and personal, she willingly complied.

The next morning, Joan found herself turning comfortably onto her side, before opening her eyes and admiring the brightness of the room. From the light which was shining through the window, and from how alert and awake she felt, it was clear that she had been asleep for a significant period of time. Joan reached under her pillow and brought out her phone, unlocking it so that she could check the time. She gasped in surprise as she learned that it was currently 11.47am.

"Whoa" she mumbled to herself, before placing her phone onto her pillow and casting a wary glance across the room. Before she could consider how to begin her morning, Joan's eyes widened in surprise at the sight before her.

On the chair to the right of her window, in which Sherlock so often sat when he wished to discuss something with her at some ungodly hour, lay a gift for her. Across the back of the chair was a jersey for her favourite baseball team, the New York Mets, as well as a matching hat. Joan tossed her blankets aside and eased herself out of bed, crossing the room briskly and making her way towards the chair. She picked up the jersey and held it to her, realising that it was the perfect size. She then picked up the cap, examined it with satisfaction for a few moments, before turning it over in her hands. She then draped the jersey across her left arm and held the hat in her right, before making her way slowly from her room and down the stairs. The sound of jazz music greeted her as soon as she opened her door and stepped onto the landing, and she followed the sound of it to the front room, where she was surprised to see Sherlock standing. It was not his presence or his stance which surprised her, but his manner of dress. Although he was facing away from her, she could tell that he was wearing a larger version of the same jersey that she was carrying, and she noted that a matching hat lay upon Angus's head. It suited him.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" she asked, causing him to turn towards her immediately. She gazed approvingly at his jersey, which suited him well, before raising her hat and jersey and casting a look of confusion in his direction.

"Ah, Watson, you're awake" he stated pleasantly, in his usual animated manner. "Wonderful. Now, we have just over an hour before we need to leave. So, if you would care to use that time to ready yourself, I will call and book the taxi for about half past-" 

"Hold on a sec" she stated, raising an open-palmed hand, which caused him to stop speaking immediately. "You still haven't told me what's going on."

"You've been my partner for almost two years, Watson, surely this is one of the simpler deductions that you have been introduced to by myself" he stated, leaning back on his heels before standing perfectly still in front of the fire, and watching her with curiosity. "The new baseball season is beginning, Watson" he stated simply, turning to the mantelpiece as he spoke, and picking something up from beneath Angus. "So I took the liberty of procuring some tickets to the first game. I believe one of the teams is a favourite of yours." Sherlock took a few steps towards her and offered her the items in her hand. She accepted them gratefully, and became aware of what they were within seconds.

"New York Mets versus the Cincinnati-" she paused for a moment, holding the tickets in both hands as she looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze. "You bought us tickets to a baseball match" she stated simply, to which Sherlock nodded slowly. "But Sherlock, these aren't just any tickets" she continued, smiling slightly as she re-read the information on the front. "It's a game between the same teams that we watched play each other on tv after we solved our first case."

"Yes" Sherlock said simply, his cheeks reddening slightly with embarrassment. "Well, I... I knew that you had a particular fondness for this fine city's team, and so I felt that it would be an appropriate outing."

"But you hate baseball" she stated with confusion.

"No, Watson, I do not. As we discussed before, I find it quite interesting. Not just the game, of course, but the commentaries, the fellow viewers... and the company, of course" Joan nodded slightly, allowing her glance to fall back to the tickets, which she turned over in her hands and examined closely, still unable to believe that they were real. "Besides" he continued, as he turned from her and walked towards Angus "you like baseball."

Joan lifted her gaze from the tickets, and faced Sherlock directly. She wanted to say something to him, to convey exactly how grateful and how touched she was by this gesture. But she found herself completely lost for words, and unable to do much accept look at him with gratitude and offer him a small smile. Which, unbeknownst to her, was more than enough. As she finally opened her mouth to speak, her words were once again prevented from leaving her mouth. Not by her inability to articulate them this time, but, instead, due to the sight before her. In the few seconds it had taken her to consider what it was that she wanted to say to him, Sherlock had reached for the hat on top of Angus's head, and placed it on his own, before turning around. The consulting detective was now stood facing her, wearing the jersey and the hat of her favourite Baseball team. Joan basked in the image for a moment, and found herself smiling with satisfaction at the scene. Despite his state of dress, Sherlock did not look like your average sports fan. Instead, he reminded Joan of the tourists you see with the 'I-heart-Vegas' shirts, dollar-shaped sunglasses and piles of casino chips. But still, it was a wonderful sight to behold, and not just because of its humour-value or unusualness. Instead, it was wonderful because of what it represented. It showed how well Sherlock knew Joan, and how much he was trying to show his care for her. This thought sobered her for a moment, and she found her smile fading slightly, as she looked at him with slight apprehension.

"Is something wrong?" he asked gently.

"No, I... it's just..." she began, gesturing with her hands slightly, before allowing her hands to fall by her sides. "I want to spend time with you. I do. More than anything, I just-" she broke off for a moment, considering her next words carefully before she responded. "I want to do something that you enjoy doing to."

Sherlock considered her words for a few moments, and was touched by her consideration, but slightly puzzled at the issue itself. "I enjoy your company, Watson" he began earnestly, nodding once with conviction. "Very much so. And I would like nothing more than to join you in an activity which brings you happiness. Despite our previous conversation about our places in the world, as both individuals and partners, I believe that it is beneficial for us both to partake in activities which are unrelated to crime." She nodded in understanding, uttering her thanks as she tilted her head slighting to meet her gaze. "And the stadium is just three blocks away from my brother's former restaurant. So, with any luck, a particularly strong or over-enthusiastic player may hit the ball and shatter one of his overly-expensive antique-glass windows." Sherlock added, smiling slightly as Joan gave him a small look of disapproval. "The game starts at one, Watson. I will order us a cab for twelve-thirty, if that is acceptable."

"Sure" she replied. "Thank you." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, before standing firmly planted on the spot, as they shared a familiar and comforting look. "I should get ready" Joan stated apologetically, before turning on the spot and quickly making her way up the stairs. As soon as he heard her door close behind her, Sherlock removed the hat from his head, and placed it back on top of Angus's.

"What a handsome fellow you are, Angus" he stated in a low tone, barely above a whisper. "If I had known how fetching this cap was, I would have purchased you one too. As well as a ticket, of course" he stated, before pursing his lips together and raising his shoulders regretfully. "But I fear that a sports stadium is really no place for a porcelain bust. Particularly one which has a habit of shattering so simply." Sherlock smiled contently to himself, before crossing the room and walking towards his desk. He spent the next twenty minutes rearranging his locks and his handcuffs, until Joan came downstairs. She was dressed in black trousers and boots, the jersey and hat, both of which fit her perfectly. Sherlock admired her for a moment, before exchanging a few words with her, and making their way out of the building.

Sherlock and Joan arrived at the arena fairly early, and were admitted fairly quickly. Sherlock glanced around the place with interest, and it was easy for Joan to deduce that he had never been to a game before. After he verbally confirmed her theory, she began giving him a brief description of the layout, the locations of the bathrooms and security personnel, and then indicated where their seats would be. Sherlock turned to walk towards the stall where they were to be seated, before Joan's voice called him back.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked incredulously, in a mock-shocked tone which instantly drew Sherlock's attention towards her. He narrowed his eyes in confusion as he watched her perplexedly. "Snacks, Sherlock!" she stated in a mock-surprised tone, before pressing the tickets to his chest and walking behind him, leading him towards the area where the food was being sold. "You can't watch a game without a ridiculous amount of over-priced under-nutritious food. It's the rules."

"I see" he stated in a low tone, before turning on the spot and following her to the snacks stall. Joan ordered them some hot dogs and fries, a couple of sodas and a large popcorn. Sherlock nodded approvingly at her choices, and watched with confusion as she began to reach for her purse. "Watson, please" he stated in a kind and gentle tone, which drew her from her actions. She glanced from her purse to his face, watching him carefully as he handed the money over to the cashier, with a very generous tip. "Allow me." Joan opened her mouth to speak, but was powerless to prevent the transaction, and simply glanced towards him as he helped to gather the food.

"Thanks, Sherlock" she began, in a kind yet slightly concerned tone. "It's my turn next thought, okay?"

"How very twenty-first century of you" Sherlock stated kindly, as he assisted her with repositioning the popcorn which she was carrying, preventing it from falling to the ground.

They found their seats fairly quickly, and were comfortably seated with plenty of time to spare before the game began. During the first half, Sherlock spent less time watching the game and more time considering his companion, whose clear excitement and animation pleased him greatly. After the year she had had, especially considering the difficulties she had faced in the past few months, he was glad to finally see her smile. She was laughing, cheering and eating contently as she watched the game, which her team seemed certain to win. Seeing her this happy and content, and so completely care-free, caused him to feel something which he did not recognise. At observing her contentment, he found himself feeling his stomach tighten slightly, and his heart beat slightly faster. He was not only glad that she was experiencing this moment, but that he was able to witness it. In what felt like no time at all, the first half of the game was over, and the music and cheering began to subside, and was replaced by the mutterings and conversations of the strong crowd.

"Are you having a good time?" Joan asked, turning towards Sherlock and offering him some popcorn. He was sat with a straight-back, hands clasped together, his eyes shielded from the bright sun by the hat he was wearing.

"Yes, Watson. I am" he stated with conviction, before accepting a handful of popcorn. Joan nodded contently, before picking a piece of popcorn out from the bucket and placing it in her mouth.

"I'm glad" she stated simply, taking a sip of her soda.

"Yes" he stated absent-mindedly. "The game itself is quite interesting. Predictable, of course. Would you like me to tell you the final score as I did the last time we-"

"No." She stated simply, shaking her head slightly as she removed the straw from her mouth. "I would rather watch the game" she continued, smiling pleasantly at him.

"Very well" he stated, nodding slightly. "I must admit, Watson, I find this part of the game to be particularly inspiring."

"Oh?" she asked, turning towards him, her interest peaked. "And why's that?"

"Because, my dear Watson, this place is a notable hive of activity. It's a gold-mine in terms of observatory and deductive potential." Joan considered this point for a moment, understanding his meaning, before casting a preliminary glance across the people in the rows ahead of them.

"You've been deducing things about our fellow spectators" she stated simply, nodding as she took another sip of her soda. "Anything good?"

"That rather depends on your definition" he stated, his eyes remaining focused on three people in front of them. "Take them, for example" he began, nodding towards the people he had been considering. There was a well-dressed gentleman in the middle, with a young blonde lady at either side, who Sherlock and Joan correctly deduced were sisters. "What do you see?"

Joan turned from the people in front and towards Sherlock, smiling brightly at him as he observed her with confusion. "Watson?" he asked, his features displaying his confusion.

"That's one of the things I've always found so interesting about you" she began, her voice gentle and conversational. "How much you notice. I know you once told me the dangers of observing so much, but I think that seeing so much that other people miss, and being able to have a brief snapshot into the lives of people you've never met, it actually pretty compelling. It's a gift" she stated simply, smiling warmly towards him. "It has its downsides, as we discussed. But it's a gift nonetheless. And I am so grateful that you chose to share it with me." Sherlock nodded in response to her statement, before turning to face forward and glancing at the people ahead of him.

"If you are attempting to distract me with your complements, Watson, I assure you-" Sherlock was broken off by Joan's laughter. He turned from the front to face her once more, observing her with keen interest. He really had never seen her so happy, so relaxed and so utterly content. He was not aware of it, of course, but after viewing Joan laughing so sweetly and with such confidence, he too was smiling. Joan stopped laughing after a few seconds, and placed her soda in the holder, before clasping the popcorn tub with both hands.

"The guy in the middle is a city worker, fairly high-up judging by the designer shades and expensive watch. The two ladies to his side are sisters, a few years apart, despite being able to pass off as twins. The lady to his left is his wife, whereas the woman to his right is his sister-in-law." She stated casually, enunciating each word carefully. As she finished speaking, she placed her hand into the popcorn tub and picked out a few more pieces, dropping them contently into her mouth.

"Yes, Watson, you are quite right" he stated, nodding in approval. "Such a pity that he is sleeping with them both."

Joan almost choked on her popcorn as he spoke those words. Before raising his theory with him, she found herself casting a cautious glance around them, in order to reassure herself that no one else had heard what Sherlock had just said. Thankfully the stadium was full, and everyone appeared to be deeply embroiled in their own conversations. She turned away from the crowd and leant slightly closer to Sherlock, speaking to him in a low and cautious tone.

"How could you possibly know that?" she asked, swallowing her remaining popcorn, before placing her hands on either side of the tub.

"Simple deductions, really" he responded, turning to face her as he helped himself to another handful of popcorn. "The wife has been leaning into him during the match, wrapping her arm around his neck, trying to kiss him, but he seems to have been rejecting her tender expressions of love, and not in the most subtle of manners, either" Sherlock began, speaking in an equally low voice. "However, the husband's attentions have been focused on the sister-in-law for almost the entire duration of the game. He keeps running his hand across her thigh, which she has also done to him on multiple occasions-"

"God" Joan stated in exasperation, sighing as she did so. "The poor wife. I wonder if she knows."

"She does, that much is evident from her body language, and the fact that she has not made eye contact with her sister at all" Sherlock responded, clasping his hands together in his lap as music began to play. "Which is probably why she hasn't told him about her pregnancy." Joan turned to face Sherlock, her eyes wide and her expression shocked, before glancing back towards the woman in front of her, whose blonde hair was dancing in the wind. "With twins" he added, glancing at the woman in front of him.

"How could you possibly know that? She's as thin as a rail, and I-"

"Her posture, aversion to junk food and alcoholic beverages, both of which her two companions have been eating voraciously throughout the game. Also, when two highly-intoxicated, brawling college students were stumbling down the aisles, she placed her arm protectively over her abdomen, and leaned towards her husband" Sherlock continued, his eyes adopting a sad and forlorn expression. "It was the only time that he actually turned towards her, and even acknowledged her presence." Joan nodded, placing the popcorn on the ground, as she found that this most recent revelation about the unsavoury nature of the husband and sister-in-law had caused her to lose her appetite. However, her thoughts soon drifted from this to her awe at Sherlock's deductions. She never failed to be impressed by how much information he could gather after such a brief glance, and the most chance of encounters.

"And, of course" he began, uncrossing is arms and gesturing with his left hand as he spoke. "When her husband went to the bathroom about twenty minutes ago, she removed a sonograph image from her wallet, which she replaced before he returned."

Joan sighed briefly, before turning her head to face him. "I see" she stated simply.

"It's a shame the husband does not." Sherlock stated sombrely, lowering his gaze to the ground, before taking another handful of popcorn.

Joan watched him for a few minutes as he played with the popcorn in his hands, occasionally placing a piece in his mouth. Something was different about him, troubling him slightly. And she wanted to figure out what and why.

"This bothers you, doesn't it?" she asked, causing Sherlock to turn to face her instantly. "His infidelity, the sister's betrayal..."

"The wife's torment." He added, before dropping the popcorn back into the bucket. "Being betrayed by someone close to you, by someone you trust so completely, is torturous" he began, his eyes adopting a sad expression. "Being betrayed by two people who fit that description must be simply unbearable."

"I agree" Joan stated sympathetically, placing her soda in the holder before turning in her seat to face Sherlock directly. "But one thing that we learn after experiencing such a betrayal is how to be stronger than we were before. It's painful, it's... it's frightening and it completely changes your whole perspective, on absolutely everything which you once believed to be true" she continued, glancing at the woman in front of her as she spoke. "But it makes us stronger" she stated, slowly moving her hand across his armrest and on top of one of his open-palms, before pressing her hand into his and gripping it reassuringly. He copied this motion, and she felt her heart racing at the contact. "And it makes us able to recognise and appreciate the people who genuinely love us." As she spoke this, Sherlock half-blinked, before turning to face her. His eyes were no longer sad and distracted, but bright and alert, and expressing a look which she recognised from just a handful of times before.

"Yes, Watson" he stated in a low and husky voice, as she leaned slightly closer to him. "I quite agree". At this moment, Sherlock and Joan leaned towards each other, and their lips met. The kiss started off chastely, but soon became more passionate. Sherlock shifted in his seat, pushing himself against the armrest which divided them, as he used his left hand to drawn her deeper into the kiss. She breathed shakily at this action, placing her own hand over his, and continuing to kiss him with as much intensity and passion as she had experienced the night after he tended to her wounds in their bathroom. A few moments later, the music announcing the renewal of the game came on, and Sherlock and Joan opened their eyes, and allowed their lips to slowly part from one another. Joan watched Sherlock with slightly concern, before being instantly reassured by the look of brightness and contentment in his eyes. He allowed his fingers to run down her cheek, and before they fell from her jaw, Joan placed her own fingers on top of them, and drew them to her mouth. She kissed his hand tenderly, before placing one hand on his cheek, and smiling at him with more kindness and adoration than he felt worthy of accepting. But he did. As Joan turned to face forward, she felt a familiar and comforting sensation in her left hand. Sherlock had laced his fingers through hers, and their hands were pressed together, causing the same feelings of exhilaration and ecstasy that they had both experienced on a few occasions before.

For the rest of the game, Sherlock and Joan remained completely engaged in the sport itself, with the only words exchanged between them being in relation to the game. Sherlock made several observations about the game and the team strategies, which he and Joan discussed, whilst enjoying the game completely. Their conversations were pleasant and animated, and they spent the rest of their time in the stadium talking and smiling. As the game ended, with the score being precisely what Sherlock had predicted, Joan reflected on what a wonderful time she had had, and how much she had enjoyed his company. Despite the fact that she had always enjoyed his company, they both realised that this was different. The fact that they had both acknowledged a new side to their relationship, and were currently exploring it, meant that they had to consider occasions such as this in a deductive and wary manner. But instead of being awkward or unsettling, the time they spent together at the game had been wonderful, and felt so completely right to them both. By the end of the game, their fingers were still laced together, and their hands were resting upon the chair.

"Thank you, Sherlock" Joan stated, turning towards him as she spoke.

"For what?" he asked, turning to face her.

"For everything" she continued, as the people began to leave the stadium. "For this."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, as he continued to consider her statements further. "For bringing you to a baseball match?"

"Yes, partly" she began, her voice low and gentle. "And for trying to enjoy it."

"I did, Watson" he stated with conviction and clarity, squeezing her hand tightly as he spoke. "I really did."

They stared at each other for a few moments, a small smile playing on Joan's lips, as she nodded in understanding. As Sherlock rose to leave, she pulled on his hand gently, causing him to sit back in his seat immediately, and glance at her with the same look of confusion and concern which he often gave her. Before he could pose a question, she relinquished her hands from his, leaned across the seats, and pulled him into another deep and passionate kiss. Sherlock reacted immediately, closing his eyes contently as he kissed her back, running his hand down her back as he did so. He found himself almost completely lost in the moment, and so did she. Neither of them cared about the people around them, or the fact that they were still exploring the precise nature of their relationship. Instead, they allowed themselves to be free from all restraints, departed from all conventions, and separated from all opinions other than their own. This was a time in which they were free, in every sense. Free from judgement, from concerns and from consideration of the impact of their current actions on their long-term partnership. Despite the crowds and the public nature of their current location, the moment was romantic, beautiful, and completely theirs.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Thanks for continuing to support the story, it really means a lot. I enjoyed writing the last chapter and, as a few people have requested more Joanlock, I have written this chapter, which I had not planned originally, so I hope it doesn't seem too out of place. I had an idea in my head of where I was trying to go with this chapter, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. Again, if there are any problems/issues/things you think could be improved, please let me know. As this chapter is longer than I intended, the killer will actually be revealed in Chapter 17. Thanks again, HQ21

The baseball game had ended, and people were pushing past each other in the aisles to leave the stadium, all rushing back to their cars or to the train station. The scent of buttered popcorn and greasy fried food filled the air, and the sound of the loud music and post-game cheers created the busiest and liveliest atmospheres which New York had to offer on that pleasant afternoon. Amidst this scene, Sherlock and Joan were completely removed from it all, and were still completely engaged in one another. Their kisses had become more breathless, whilst retaining their passion and their intensity, before a tired and weary Joan pulled herself regretfully from his lips, and perched herself on the edge of her seat. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, glancing towards her as he lifted his fingers to his lips. The taste and texture of her lip-gloss and her kiss was imprinted upon his lips, and relished it. As he watched Joan collect her belongings, adjust her jersey and re-apply her lip-gloss, his mind went over each action and sensation of the past few minutes, until his eyes were heavy with desire, and his heart was beating faster than he could ever recall it having done before.

"Watson" he stated in a breathless manner, shifting himself in his seat slightly. Her head turned up instantly to meet his gaze, as she deposited her lip-gloss back into her purse, before slinging it over her shoulder and standing slowly from her seat. "Watson" he repeated, in a more controlled and confident tone, as his eyes adjusted themselves to the brightness of the day.

"Yeah" she returned, in a slightly breathless and animated manner, as she pressed her newly-glosses lips together, and turned to face him directly.

"If you feel up to it, there is something else which I would like us to partake in this afternoon."

Joan's eyes lit up for a moment, and she felt her heart race beneath her jersey. A slight shiver passed across her body, and she prepared herself to speak. "What did you have in mind?"

"The completion of something which we have, as yet, left unfinished." He replied simply, rising from his seat and standing by her side. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, giving him a perplexed look, which he answered with a pleasant and amiable expression of his own. Sherlock remained standing perfectly still, before reaching his arm out to the side, and offering his open-palmed hand. She took a cautious step forward, before accepting his hand, and lacing her fingers through his own. She felt the warm and comforting gentle squeeze of Sherlock's hand as he clasped hers firmly, and led her from the stadium.

Sherlock and Joan walked a few blocks, carefully navigating their way through the crowds of people leaving the game, as well as the other residents of the city, who were just leaving work. Driving through the city during rush hour was incredibly difficult, but walking was not much easier. And yet Sherlock led Joan through alleyways and side-roads that she seldom paid attention to, and she found herself surprised to end up at a small, run-down store in Queens. The partners paused for a moment, allowing themselves a moment of rest and recovery after their fast walk to their new location. After Joan had caught her breath, she stared up at the building in confusion, before casting a glance in Sherlock's direction. He was standing perfectly still, tilting his head back as he examined the building admiringly, as he drummed his fingers upon his thigh. His right hand was still holding onto hers tightly, and he was unaware of her calling his name. His attention was only drawn to her once she began to squeeze his hand lightly as she shook it, which drew his gaze towards her.

"Sherlock, what is this place?" she asked, watching him with an expression of confusion and amusement. She did not seem upset or disappointed, and nor was she. She knew that whatever this place was, and whatever Sherlock planned on doing here, it would be a representation of his care for her, and his desire to engage her in an activity which he felt that she would enjoy. But as she glanced from the building to Sherlock, she could not figure out exactly what it was that she was looking at.

"This used to be a bar, Watson" Sherlock stated by way of explanation. "Well, _originally_ it was a small convenience store, which was then transformed into a bar-slash-gambling den." He stated in his usual animated manner, nodding enthusiastically, as if his statement had just revealed all that she needed to know.

"Sherlock, I'm fairly certain you wouldn't have brought me to a bar" she stated simply, pronouncing the last word with care. "You said used to be" she stated in a low tone, as she narrowed her eyes in confusion. "So what is it now?"

Sherlock stifled a small laugh, before squeezing her hand gently, and leading her through the splinter-ridden doorway of the derelict building. As they entered, Joan found herself walking across creaking floorboards and discarded newspapers, with the scent of cigarettes and alcohol providing a stale musk to the otherwise empty room. Despite her trust in Sherlock, she found herself hanging back slightly as they passed through the room, and he clearly sensed her concern.

"It's quite alright, Watson" he stated in a pleasant tone, as he paused for a moment, turning to face her. "We are almost there. And I assure you, the atmosphere of our destination is quite different." Joan nodded slowly, before allowing herself to be led through the room, and towards a door at the back. Sherlock pushed the door open, which creaked and groaned reproachfully, before opening obediently. From her position in the doorway, Joan could see that she was now standing on what appeared to be a landing, with one set of stairs leading downstairs, and another leading up. The wood was as perilous-looking and antiquated as the interior of the former store, and yet she found herself feeling oddly relaxed. She glanced at the staircase which led upstairs, and noted that the steps were covered in a thick layer of dust and scattered papers, whereas the stairs leading lower were clean of dust, and looked as though they had been recently cleaned.

"Is there... wait, where do these stairs lead to?" She asked, taking a step in front of Sherlock, and tugging his hand gently towards the bottom steps. "The dust on the stairs leading up shows that they are currently not in use, but these ones are cleaner than any other part of this building, so are clearly walked upon with some frequency" she continued, before turning back to face him, and finding herself pleasantly greeted by Sherlock's infamous look of approval. "But... I mean, how is there even a downstairs? I don't-" she began, breaking off as she stared across the landing.

"My dear Watson, for once, please" Sherlock stated amiably, before taking a few steps ahead of her. "Will you allow me to do the worrying, hmm?" Joan cast him a sceptical look, before allowing herself to be led down the treacherous steps once more. As they reached the bottom, Joan could hear the gentle hum of music, and felt the vibrations of the rhythm through the floor. She didn't know how she hadn't noticed the music from upstairs, and was about to question Sherlock on it, when he took a few steps confidently forwards, and pushed open the door. As he did so, Joan took a few steps forward until she was standing by her side, and she stared in complete awe at the sight before her.

The room itself was quite dark, with the only light source being the numerous candles which were placed around the walls and floor, and upon some of the furniture. The candles providing a low yet notable light source to the room, and created a peaceful, romantic ambience. Instead of smelling musky and old, the room smelt noticeably of roses and calla lilies, with adorned several small tables which rested beside the walls, and which adorned the aforementioned flowers, as well as candles. At the back of the room was an old bar, which looked as though it had been constructed in the early twentieth century. There were some decorative bottles displayed behind it, of brands of whiskey and rum which Joan recognised as being both rare and expensive. Tea lights were placed along the length of the bar, and were burning brightly, commanding the attention of the new arrivals. As Sherlock took a step into the room, and gently encouraged Joan to do the same, she found herself being even more amazed by the new sights which she saw. Upon the walls were paintings and photographs of various landmarks of the city which, due to their condition and depictions, were several decades old. Joan briefly scanned these images, before finding her glance resting on the four silhouetted figures who were standing in the centre of the wall to the right.

After a few seconds, when Joan's eyes had adjusted themselves to the lightness within the room, she was able to observe more details of the figures who were in the room. They were three men, all fairly tall and slender, and dressed in what appeared to be old-style suits, complete with black bow ties and silver cuff-links. The suits they wore were formal and highly presentable, yet their design had notable age, as did the men's gelled-back hairstyles. Joan allowed her gaze to drift from their physical appearances and focus upon what they were holding. The men on the left and right were playing violins, which they had ceased briefly upon Sherlock and Joan's entrance into the room. However, they had now continued to play their instruments, and were filling the room with soft, classical music, which Joan found to be incredibly soothing. The man in the middle, however, was not holding an instrument. He was watching Sherlock and Joan with a pleasant smile playing on his lips, and was holding two large black bags over his right arm, which looked like the type you use to place suits inside when transporting them. Joan glanced across the room once more, allowing the sound of the music to comfort and soothe her as she once more considered the old-style bar, antique furniture, rare drinks and beautiful lighting. It was a truly mesmerising scene.

"It's like stepping into the 1930s." She stated in a low tone, her eyes wide and alight with interest and amazement.

"The 1920s, actually" Sherlock returned pleasantly, before releasing his hand from hers and walking across the room and towards the bar.

"Sherlock, what-" she began, taking a few more steps into the room. The lights shone brightly and the music continued to play seductively, as Joan followed Sherlock towards the bar, before pausing in the middle of the room and watching him with interest. Sherlock reached the bar, pressed his hands on the side, and leaned over it. His jersey rose slightly at the back as he leaned over the bar, and began reaching for something on the other side. A few seconds later, he sighed with satisfaction, as he took a small jump back, before turning around to face Joan, and taking a few steps towards her. In his right hand were two wine glasses, which he was holding by the stems, and in his left hand was a crystal decanter, filled with a pale liquid.

"Relax, dear Watson" he soothed, as he removed the stopper from the decanter and began to pour the liquid into a glass, before handing it to her. "It is home-made lemonade. I know you have a particular soft-spot for the fruity juice."

"I do" she returned, accepting a glass from him, and taking a small sip before she continued to speak. "Sherlock, what's going on? And what did you mean about the 1920s?"

Sherlock nodded slightly towards her, smiling as he poured himself a glass, before placing the now half-empty decanter on the top of the bar. It stood tall and majestic in the centre of the bar, and complemented the décor of the rest of the room perfectly. It felt like Joan had stepped into a classic scene from a century ago.

"Do you recall a conversation we had about a year ago, about prohibition?" Sherlock stated conversationally, taking a small sip from his glass. Joan nodded in confirmation, and continued to glance curiously around the room, waiting for Sherlock to add to his statement. "At the start of the twentieth century, this building used to be a convenience store, owned by a man named Ernie Schultz. The room we entered upon first arriving was the shop floor, and the staircase leading upstairs takes you directly to what used to be the living quarters of the Schultz family. I was an acquaintance of Elliot Schultz, Ernie's son."

Joan nodded in understanding, before returning her gaze to Sherlock, and addressing him directly. "And this place?"

"Basement" Sherlock said simply. "It was used as a storage facility for the family's stock." He leaned back on his heels slightly, and placed on hand in his pocket as he took another sip of the cool and refreshing liquid. "That is, it _was_ the storage area, right up until the third decade of the twentieth century. Prohibition had begun, and the owner of the store, who was morally opposed to the nature of the country's intervention in the alcoholic consumption of its people, transformed his storage cellar into this" Sherlock stated, raising his arms enthusiastically into the air, and gesturing around the room. "A small bar, concealed beneath his store, which provided the bygone locals of this wonderful city with small amounts of alcohol. Ernie was not in this solely for the money, you understand. No, he was a man of principle. He charged people just what it cost him to illicitly import the substance into the country. His brother and nephew worked at the docks, making transportation and acquisition of alcohol fairly simple. And so, the kind and generous Ernie created this room, where locals would relax, unwind and defy the state."

"Right" Joan stated breathlessly, glancing around the room with a renewed sense of approval at this new knowledge. "So... what happened to Elliot?" Sherlock smiled slightly at this question, before placing both hands in his pockets, and turning to face Joan. The soft and gentle light emanating from the candles lit up her face, and she appeared to him now to be more beautiful and transcendent than every before.

"Ernie earned the support of the local residents, some tourists, even the police. His bar was considered to be one of the city's best-kept secrets of the 1920s, and was a veritable haven. It was a small sanctum sanctorum for citizens who wished to regain the freedom which they had been so cruelly and unjustly denied. When the second world war broke out, Ernie volunteered to serve for his country. He lost his life six months before the war ended." Sherlock stated, his eyes slightly glazed as he spoke in an absent-minded manner. "After his death, Ernie's son, Elliot, discovered this room, and maintained it for as long as he could, as a tribute to his late father." Ernie's actions and his legacy had clearly had a profound impact on Sherlock, and it did not take long to ascertain why.

"It's amazing" Joan began, taking a step past Sherlock, and running her hand across the bar. "The history of the place. All the people who came and went, who spent time together defying the state in order to regain that freedom" she smiled slightly to herself, running her finger across the slightly dusty bar, which she considered to be a representation of strength and courage. "So how did you come to be here?" Joan began, her voice soft and her tone curious.

Sherlock pursed his lips together for a moment, before swallowing slightly and turning his head to face her. Their eyes met for a moment, and he held her gaze, as he addressed her question.

"Elliot was a friend of mine. One of the first I met in New York, actually. I assisted him with a few issues he had relating to the increase in vandalism in the area, and I helped to restore some of this" Sherlock stated, crossing the room to stand by Joan's side, as he leaned into the bar. "Elliot was extremely grateful to me and, as a result, left me this place in his will."

"This is yours?" Joan asked, her eyes widening. She nodded approvingly, before allowing her arm to rest across the smooth, dark wood of the century-old bar.

"It is" Sherlock returned. "I do not use the rooms upstairs, you understand. I left them quite as Ernie had them before he-" his voice trailed off slightly, and his eyes became slightly glassy. Joan took a step closer to him, resting her hand upon his own, as he tilted his head towards her, and continued to speak. "The only space in this building which I frequent is this very room. I helped Elliot restore it slightly, and have worked on it since his passing. Of course, I did not enter the building during the first few months after my stint in rehab, but after you consenting to becoming my partner I... I trusted myself more" he stated, adding the last phrase simply. "And I wanted to ensure that Ernie's legacy, and the wishes of his son to continue that legacy, were not forgotten."

"I see" Joan stated in a low and gentle tone. "I think that's wonderful." Joan gave Sherlock a warm and comforting look, she realised that the sound of the music that had continued to play was so soothing and so appropriate for the scene, that the melody had become part of the building itself.

"Yes. Well, it also has a slight irony to it, does it not? An addict restoring a bar" Sherlock stated lightly gesturing slightly with his free hand as he spoke. "But I find this place to be of considerable value. Not monetary, you understand, but of principle." Joan watched Sherlock carefully as he spoke, and tried to consider what it was that he was trying to convey. This place evidently meant a lot to him, and she felt honoured that he had shared his secret hideaway with her. But still, she found herself to be curious as to why he chose this moment to share it with her. "This place represents one person's attempts to fight against what he considered to be an unjust action, something which affected a nation for over a decade. It represents, in this sense, a single man's attempt at regaining the freedom that had been snatched from himself, and his fellows citizens. And he was successful. Although his actions would have been viewed negatively at the time by many, he created a microcosm in which complete freedom had been restored to the people of the city. Despite the illicit nature of his actions, he did what he believed to be right. And in doing so, he provided many people with a level of freedom and happiness which they would have otherwise been deprived of. It is not what they gained physically, but emotionally, and in terms of principle."

"You relate to him" Joan breathed. "You see yourself in the same way. A man finding himself fighting for what he believes is right, for what other people deem to be right, despite the fact that it often involves... bending of certain rules." Sherlock glanced up at her, and held her gaze for a few moments, but did not react to her statement. "So, why are you showing me this place? Why now?"

"Because, Watson" he continued, taking a few steps towards her, until their bodies were almost touching. "You are part of it. You are, quite simply, the bravest, most courageous and most principled individual I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. You and I work together, we thrive, we succeed, and we provide people with justice and with reassurance in a world in which an overwhelming amount of people seek to deny them both."

"Are you saying I'm Ernie?" she asked in a gentle and respectful voice, which caused Sherlock to smile slightly, and stifle a small laugh.

"This bar is the physical representation not of Ernie's illicit activities, but of his principles. It represents how one man sought to deal with what he felt to be an injustice. It is, therefore, a tangible representation of justice" he stated simply, his voice husky and low. "As are you, Watson. You are a representation of justice. The greatest, most tangible representation which I have ever faced. This bar, like us, represents the difference that individuals are capable of making in the world, and of the nature and impact of legacy. This bar is the legacy of Ernie's attempts to achieve justice and fairness" he continued, shifting on the spot slightly as he prepared himself to utter his final statements. "And I am the legacy of yours." Joan looked up at him for a moment, and held his hand tightly and reassuringly as he continued to speak, uttering words which deeply moved her.

"I think we are both part of the same thing, Sherlock. We've changed each other, for the better, and perhaps more than we realise. We are part of each other's legacies."

"Yes" Sherlock began, his eyes wide yet slightly vacant. "Yes, I do believe that you maybe right." Sherlock held her hand tightly in his own, before relinquishing his hold, and walking towards the man holding the black bags. "So I hope you understand the reasons for me bringing you here, Watson" he called over his shoulder, as he accepted the bags from the man's arms. The middleman then bent down, picked up a violin, and joined in with the other two men. The sound of the music rose, filling the room with pleasurable and seductive sounds, as Sherlock draped the bags across his forearm and carried them over towards Joan. "I hope you understand how grateful I am to you, and how much I attribute any and all of my humanity and sense of justice and fairness, to your irreplaceable influence and unwavering support." Sherlock was standing just inches from Joan as he spoke, and was watching her with wide and loving eyes, as he revealed his true feelings to Joan. She returned his look with an expression of warmth and appreciation, and glanced towards the ground slightly, as she felt her own eyes prickling with tears. She turned her head up moments later, and gave him her warmest smile, before taking a step towards him, and kissing him tenderly on the lips. Sherlock returned the kiss, before feeling her nuzzling gently against his neck, and muttering words of thanks and gratitude into his ear.

"I know how hard this is for you" she stated gently, as she moved her body away from his, and held his gaze as she continued to speak. "I will never be able to tell you how much your words and your actions mean to me. I just hope you understand how happy and how inspired I am by you, here, now." Sherlock watched her for a moment, and found himself feeling a sensation which he was not familiar with. As he stared at the beautiful woman before him, he wondered what it was that she could be referring to, and was utterly perplexed as to how he had made her feel as she had described. He did not doubt her sincerity, not for a moment. And for the first time in his life, in terms of emotional capabilities and selflessness, he did not doubt himself.

"Yes, well" he stated, his voice slightly higher and in more animated a tone. "Another reason I wished to bring you here, Watson, was to free us both, temporarily, at least, from the shackles of modernity." As he spoke, he handed Joan one of the black bags, which she accepted immediately, and studied for a few seconds, before tugging the zipper on the side gently down. As the zipper reached the bottom of the bag, she parted the black material slightly, and gazed in awe at the contents of the bag. She rested the bag itself on one of the seats by the bar, and pulled out the beautiful white and beige sequinned dress which was encased within it. She could feel the softness and silkiness of the material beneath her fingertips, and marvelled at how delicate it seemed. She pulled the item completely from the bag, holding it up as she did so, and revealing it for what it was. It was a classic 1920s cocktail dress, made from high-end fabric, and decorated with sequins. It was a flapper-girl dress, a gorgeous and timeless piece of clothing from a by-gone era. And it was absolutely stunning.

"Sherlock, where did you-"

"I bought it from a vintage clothes store in Chelsea a few weeks ago. I believe that it will fit you perfectly. If, of course, you are happy to wear it" he added nervously, to which Joan gave him a small and grateful smile, as he reached behind the bar and pulled up a brown box, which he also handed to her. "Should you choose to accept my gift for this evening, you may wish to have these too." Joan accepted the box gratefully, thanking him as she did so, before prising the lid from the top, and opening it wide. Inside lay a pair of white satin court shoes, with straps across the front, and recently repaired heels. They, too, were genuine 1920s-era clothing, and matched the dress perfectly. Joan draped the dress across her arm as she extracted the shoes from the box, running her fingers over them in amazement, as she considered them from all angles.

"And this is mine" Sherlock stated simply, pulling a bespoke black suit from the bag which he held in his arm. "From the same store as your articles. The suit and the dress were placed on mannequins, which were displayed side-by-side. I felt it would be appropriate for tonight."

"What is tonight?" Joan asked, holding the shoes to her chest as she adjusted her hold on the dress.

"The night that we finish what we began" Sherlock answered simply, his voice adopting a slightly nervous tone as he spoke, wish Joan wished to alleviate at once. "I understand that I often become...obsessed with work that we do, and the cases that we immerse ourselves in. I also know that you understand and accept this, and for that I am truly grateful. But tonight, I would like to show you my appreciation fully. I want to demonstrate to you that I am capable of, and comprise of more than, my work. Our work" he corrected, placing his suit over his forearm as he spoke. "I wanted to bring you somewhere that we could escape not only the work, but the time. I restored this room, found the clothing, and arranged for the music, in order to take us as far from this place and this time as I am able to. I wanted there to be no distractions, no danger, and no obsessions" he stated simply, before meeting her gaze with confidence. "I wanted it to be us. Just us. I wanted you to be able to be free, Watson, from everything. And, mostly, from the things which our work and, more specifically, my influence, has subjected you to. In truth, what I hoped for, Watson, was one night, alone, with you."

Joan did not respond immediately to his statement, but simply stared at him with wide and glassy eyes. She had never been so touched, and completely amazed by one person before. She knew that Sherlock was full of surprises, and capable of things which she never believed him possible of. But to have done all that he had done tonight, to have orchestrated something so elaborate and so thoughtful, was so wonderful that it almost reduced her to tears. Instead, she fought back her emotions, and addressed him in a warm yet slightly husky tone.

"So what happens now?" she asked, her bright eyes meeting his own.

"Of course, that is up to you, Watson" he began. "But I was hoping that, if you consent, of course, we could turn off our phones, change into these clothes, and enjoy the evening."

"And what exactly did you have in mind?" she asked in a gentle and inquisitive tone.

"I was hoping that we could dance" he stated simply, as he watched her features light up with his words. "We were interrupted twice before. Both times by crimes that we helped to foil. Although, admittedly, the first occasion was partly hindered by my own weakness and childishness" he stated, pausing only briefly, not wishing her to make an excuse for him. "So now, if you permit it, I would very much like to make it up to you."

Joan smiled at his words, before nodding slightly and returning his gaze. "Where can we change?"

"There is a bathroom just through that door" Sherlock stated, indicating to a door behind the bar, which Joan had not noticed before. "We can change in there, if you wish."

"I do" she replied immediately, gathering up her dress and shoes, as she smiled at him warmly. "I'll just be a minute" she continued, holding the items close to her as she walked around the bar, past the violin-players, and through the door.

When she returned, she found that Sherlock was already dressed in his suit, and was standing proudly, his hands behind his back. As he caught his first glimpse of her, his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. The dress fitted her perfectly, as did the shoes, and she looked truly beautiful. Whilst in the bathroom, she had also fixed her hair, which was now plaited and wrapped into a bun, which was secured at the back of her head, in true 1920s-style.

"I feel like we just stepped into a '20s silent film" she stated nervously, as she crossed the room to join Sherlock, who had been waiting for her in anticipation. "But thankfully, it isn't silent" she continued, as Sherlock took a few steps towards her, holding one of her hands tightly, and placing his other hand on her lower back. "We get to be surrounded by this beautiful music."

"Indeed we do, Watson" he stated, pulling her close to him as he spoke. He felt her breath catch in her throat as he did so, before her whole body relaxed into his, and they began to dance across the room in time with the music. "Fortunately for our dance, and for ourselves" he paused for a moment, pressing his cheek against hers as they spoke, "we are no longer restrained by our silence."


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock and Joan danced for hours, with their bodies moving rhythmically to the seductive sound of the music, which completed the atmosphere. The evening was more wonderful than Joan could have imagined, and more successful than Sherlock had dared to hope. It was nine o'clock at night before their tired and weary limbs bade them to stop dancing, and they paused in the centre of the tiled floor, with Joan leaning breathlessly into Sherlock's arms. He closed his eyes in satisfaction as he accepted her embrace, holding her tightly against him, as she breathed heavily into his chest. Although the dancing was over, and their feet were tired and aching, Sherlock and Joan would have both been willing to stand in that spot all night long, with the gentle music soothing them into complete and undisturbed peace and contentment. After remaining on the spot for a period of time which neither of them were able to define, they pulled themselves slowly out of the embrace, and took a small step back. Joan flashed Sherlock a tired smile, which he returned, before shrugging off his dinner jacket and wrapping it around her. The material felt warm and comforting on her shoulders, and reminded her very much of the strength exuded by his arms as he had held her tightly to him just moments before. The jacket contained the essence of Sherlock's seductive scent.

"We have an early start in the morning, Watson" Sherlock stated simply, as she pushed her arms through the arms of the jacket, and adjusted it so that it covered her completely. Sherlock marvelled at how small she was beneath his clothing, which fell to just above her knees. And yet, in her eyes and her features, was the unmistakable expression of strength and courage. It was something which had been gradually disappearing from her features in past few weeks. But now, beneath the dim lights of this idyllic scene, he saw the look he recognised restored to its full and indestructible strength. And he could not be happier.

"Do we?" she asked tiredly, stifling a yawn as she wrapped her arms across her body.

"Yes, Watson" he stated simply, his warm eyes not leaving hers. "Whilst you were changing earlier, I received a call from Captain Gregson, who informed me that Mrs Mathers has agreed to a second interview, which will take place at the precinct tomorrow morning."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with confusion. "If you've known for the past five hours, why would you-"

"As I said, Watson, I wished you to be freed from everything work-related, and everything that causes any degree of stress or uncertainty" he continued, his voice adopting a kinder and warmer expression. "If only for one night."

"It was a wonderful night" she breathed huskily, offering him a small and sombre smile. "And I am so glad that you thought of this. And that you shared it with me" she continued, glancing around the room as she spoke. "I'm going to miss this room."

"'Miss' implies that you will not see it again, or for a prolonged period of time" Sherlock stated, placing his hands in his pockets and taking a few steps forward, before turning back to face her. "This is not the only time you will be here, or experience this. You are welcome any time. In fact, I would be honoured if you would allow me to bring you here more often."

"You'd allow me to enter into your own escape from the world on more than one occasion?" she asked in a congenial tone.

"I hope that I am fortunate enough to be blessed with your company, here or anywhere else, for always, Watson." He spoke soothingly, taking a step towards her as he reached for her hand. As he laced his fingers between her own, Joan looked up into his eyes, and smiled. The music had stopped playing. "Now, should we take our leave before one or both of us turns into a pumpkin?"

Joan smiled widely at this, despite her tiredness, and her fears that this night would never be repeated, despite Sherlock's sincerest entreaties. She squeezed his hand gently in return, before tilting her head back slightly and speaking in a low yet alert manner.

"So in your analogy, which one of us is Cinderella, and which is the prince?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, his mischievous eyes shining brightly as he prepared himself to speak. "I'd hardly describe myself as a prince, Watson" he began, speaking in a rather off-hand manner. "But I must say that my sibling is much uglier than yours. So, make of that what you will." A flicker of pain crossed Joan's eyes, and for a moment Sherlock wished that he had not spoken at all. But then, her eyes lit up once more, and she stared at him with restored eagerness and hope.

"Then let's get you home, Cinders" she stated simply, turning on the spot and leading him towards the door. "Orange is not your colour."

"As you wish, my prince" Sherlock returned, in a faux-posh accent, as he held her hand tightly and followed her across the room and towards the door. Joan smiled to herself, before turning towards the violinists and thanking them for their work. Sherlock seconded her notion, speaking to them kindly and with more sincerity than Joan believed he was able to convey. After thanking the musicians and wishing them a good night, the weary partners walked across the room and towards the door, which Sherlock pushed open with his free hand. "Your highness" he stated, adopting the same tone he had used before. At the sound of Sherlock's voice, and due to the amusing nature of his sentiment, Joan found herself laughing loudly and appreciatively. Sherlock viewed her positive actions and expression with relief, and smiled at her laughter as they ascended the stairs, passed through the rooms, and walked onto the dark and deserted street. A cab was hailed, which drove them back to their home within minutes, where the tired partners exchanged a few pleasant words in the foyer, bade each other goodnight, and prepared to go to their own rooms. Joan walked quickly up a couple of the steps, before pausing on the spot, and holding onto the bannister with one hand. Sherlock stood still for a moment, his eyes narrowing with confusion and concern as he watched her. A moment later, she turned sharply on the spot, descended the few steps she had walked up, and reached down towards the ground. By the time Sherlock had tilted his head to try and ascertain what she was doing, he felt an object being pressed lightly into his chest. His gaze fell down to this object, as he slowly lifted his hand, resting it beneath the item which he had just identified. It was one of Watson's 1920s heels.

"Sleep tight" she mumbled, staring at him with wide and alert eyes, before leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek. Before he had a chance to respond, she turned on the spot once more, and walked briskly up the stairs. Sherlock turned the shoe in his hand for a moment, examining it briefly, before glancing up the stairs and towards the landing. As he did so, he just made out the back of Joan's white lace dress, as she entered her bedroom and closed the door behind her. His glance fell to the shoe once more, which he pressed slightly tighter to his chest, as he smiled.

Joan slept more soundly that night than she had done in recent weeks, which she was grateful for. She woke up the next morning to find that light had flooded into her bedroom, signalling that it was well past what she considered to be an 'inconvenient hour'. She rose one hand tiredly to her forehead, brushing aside some of her hair as she leaned from her side onto her back. As she did so, she became acutely aware of an object at the bottom of her bed, which was resting between her feet. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, before pushing herself up in the bed, and allowing her curious glance to fall upon the offending article. As soon as she realised what it was, all signs of tiredness disappeared from her features, and she gave a small, bright smile. At the bottom of her bed was the house pet, Clyde, who was attempting to push his tiny body up the front of a rather amply-sized pumpkin. Joan leaned forward slightly, reaching for the small nest of green lettuce leaves which Sherlock had evidently placed at the top of the pumpkin to encourage Clyde's exercise. Joan removed the cocktail stick which he had used to secure them, before scooping up Clyde with her free hand, and offering him some leaves. He accepted them gratefully, and continued to munch on them quite contently, as Joan eased herself off the bed and began to walk across the room, through the door and down the stairs. She walked through the living area and into the kitchen, where she found Sherlock eating a bowl of cereal at the table. He turned his head to face her as she entered the room, offering her his best 'innocent' look.

"Would you care to explain why Clyde was engaging in an early-morning root vegetable climb in my bedroom?" she asked, her voice conversational yet with a slight edge of light remonstration.

Sherlock finished chewing and swallowing the cereal in his mouth, before placing the spoon back in the bowl and standing up. He collected his bowl and spoon from the table, and was carrying to the sink as he spoke.

"Clyde simply wished to ensure that neither of us had been transformed into a holiday vegetable" he stated simply, placing the bowl and spoon in the sink and turning to face her. "And we are both very happy to learn that that was not the case."

"So am I" Joan responded immediately, her voice low and warm. Sherlock felt himself flush slightly, his cheeks reddening with mild embarrassment, before he tilted his head up confidently and began to address Joan.

"I assure you, Watson, that there will be no transformations of that description." Joan considered his words for a moment, before nodding in understanding, and passing Clyde to Sherlock, who accepted him willingly.

"I'm very glad to hear it" she stated, in the same low, husky tone. Their fingers brushed lightly during this exchange, causing each to gaze instinctively at the other, exchanging a brief look of comfort and reassurance. Joan allowed her hand to fall from his, before walking over to the stove and heating up the kettle. "What time does Gregson want us at the precinct?" she asked in her usual pleasant and conversational tone.

"In about forty-five minutes. Mrs Mathers is expected to arrive at ten-thirty" he replied, his voice adopting its usual tone. "Is that agreeable?"

"Of course" she returned, speaking over her shoulder as she poured herself a cup of tea. She placed the kettle back on the stove before wrapping her hands around her mug, and carrying it as she walked through the room. "I'll be fifteen minutes." Sherlock nodded in understanding, brushing past her as he made his way towards the stove, and pouring himself a cup of tea. By the time he had finished the cup, which he sipped slowly whilst going over the details of the night before, Joan Watson was once more by his side. "You ready?" she asked, as she moved between the kitchen and the living room, collecting her various items and putting them into her shoulder bag. Sherlock nodded in agreement, placing the cup on the table before walking through the living room and towards the foyer. Joan joined him moments later, and before she could reach for her coat, he plucked it deftly from the rack, and opened it up for her. She eased herself backwards into it, as he ran his hands down its arms, before she turned on the spot, speaking to him as she removed her hair from the back and began to secure the zipper. She gave him a grateful look, which he nodded at in acknowledgement, before they left the building and made their way to the precinct.

The precinct was fairly busy that morning, with officers, witnesses and detainees creating a busy atmosphere. Despite this, the tall and confident figure of Captain Gregson was easily discernible. As soon as Sherlock and Joan had entered the building, Gregson and Bell strolled briskly across the precinct and made straight for them, throwing his head back slightly as he prepared to address them.

"Mrs Mathers will be here in fifteen minutes" he stated simply, as Bell appeared from behind him and stood by his side.

"She's comin' in alone" Bell interposed, as he flipped the cover over his notebook before placing it in his pocket. "So, hopefully she'll be more forthcoming with information without the presence of her husband."

"Although I'm not holding my breath" Gregson stated forlornly, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back slightly as he spoke. "But unless she comes up with the goods, we may have to let Thompson go."

"What?" Joan asked quietly, her voice adopting a low and nervous tone which instantly attracted the attention of Sherlock. She realised this, and sought to remedy the issue. "I thought he was still your strongest suspect..." she continued, speaking in a slightly more confident manner.

"He was. Is, I... look, this isn't somethin' I wanna do, okay?" Gregson began, speaking in a hushed tone. "But we have been holding him here for three days now. Unless we charge him with somethin', my hands are tied."

"Captain, this is a dangerous man with a history of stalking and violence" Joan stated, her eyes ablaze with fear and anger. "You can't just let him go."

"I'm not just letting him go, Miss Watson" Gregson spoke soothingly, uncrossing his arms as he addressed her. "I'll have a couple of my guys following him until we get something more concrete. But unless we can get some tangible proof of his involvement in these crimes, the only stuff we've got is circumstantial. And to be honest, I'm starting to have my doubts."

"What about, Captain?" Sherlock asked, hoping to assist in clarifying any outstanding issues without causing Joan any further distress. He did not want all the progress she had made in recent weeks to be undone. "What is it that has caused you to have doubts?"

"It's just... the evidence is _too_ circumstantial" he stated, shifting uncomfortably on the spot.

"You believe that Mr Thompson is being set up?" Sherlock asked, a hint of incredulity present in his voice. As he spoke the words, he considered the evidence in his mind, and began to run over possibilities and alternatives in his mind. But, in all honesty, he could find very few. In truth, he had been considering the same thing as the Captain.

"I know he has connections to three of the four victims, and his history would certainly make him a person of interest. The fact his alibis are shaky or non-existent also don't do him any favours" Gregson rationalised, gazing from Sherlock to Joan as he spoke. "But I'm not convinced."

"Why?" Sherlock probed.

"It's too clean. Too circumstantial. Too... too obvious." Gregson stated, raising one hand in the air as he spoke. "Look, I get the personal link you guys have in this guy, but I-"

"There is no personal link" Joan spoke calmly. "We met, we went out, and that was it. I have no vested interest in the guy. I just think that the evidence we have against him cannot be ignored, and should not be undervalued" she continued, her voice adopting a low and gentle tone. "I think that releasing him at this stage would be a really bad idea."

"I don't like it any more than you do" Gregson said, shaking his head sadly. "But unless Mrs Mathers IDs him, I'm not gonna have a choice." Joan exhaled, closing her eyes and she nodded in understanding. She knew that he was right, and that the evidence they had against Thompson was far from concrete. But the evidence they had drew direct links between him and some of the victims, and was not something they could overlook.

"We must be missing something" Joan stated, placing one hand on her hip as she tried to understand the situation.

"I agree" Sherlock stated, clasping his hands together and resting them in front of him. "And I believe that it is something we should look into. But right now, we must focus on this interview. Mrs Mathers is certainly hiding something, and her safety, as well as the safety of others, is dependent on her telling us." Gregson, Bell and Joan nodded in response, all agreeing with his statement. Sherlock and Joan followed Gregson and Bell into an empty interview room, and ran through some of the files on the preliminary evidence of Mrs Mathers' attack, in preparation for the forthcoming discussion. A few minutes later, two officers escorted Mrs Mathers into the room.

Mrs Mathers was dressed all in black, and although her eyes were not red or aggravated, it was clear that she had been crying. Joan felt drawn towards the woman once more, and rose from her seat as soon as she set eyes on her forlorn figure. She took a few steps across the room, before resting an arm reassuringly upon the younger woman's shoulder, and escorted her to her seat. Although Mrs Mathers was attempting to appear as in control and confident as she always was, it was clear that she was far from it. She did not utter a word during these first few moments, and simply allowed herself to be led to her seat, whilst walking with a straight back and her head up straight, in an attempt to appear completely composed. As she eased herself into her seat, she adjusted her black jacket, before staring ahead directly at Gregson and Bell, casting a steely and almost icy glare at both detectives in turn. She then lifted her head slightly, giving Sherlock a piercing stare, before allowing her eyes to rest upon Joan. Instead of casting her a frightening and almost threatening look, she simply nodded. Joan took this as her cue to begin.

"Thank you for coming in, Mrs Mathers" she began, speaking in a soft and soothing voice. "I know it can't have been easy. And not just because of your injuries."

Mrs Mathers scoffed slightly, turning her head to the side and staring at the window as she considered Joan's words. She crossed her arms across her chest, inhaling sharply as she began to feel some discomfort in her abdomen, before adjusting herself in her seat and staring ahead at Joan. Mrs Mathers' expression was blank, impassive and virtually unreadable.

"I'm fine, Miss Watson" she stated simply, her voice adopting the same cold and almost arrogant tone which they had witnessed in the hospital. "I just wished to clear a few things up with you to save any further confusion."

"Alright" Joan responded, before clasping her hands together in her lap, and waiting patiently for Mrs Mathers to continue.

"My husband, you understand, is unaware of my... of the relationship I had outside of our marriage" she stated, her eyes widening as she spoke. "And I wish it to remain that way."

"It is not our job to out you, Mrs Mathers" Bell stated, in a simple yet gentle tone. "You're the victim of a violent crime, by a man we believe to be highly dangerous and a threat to numerous women. All we wanna do is protect you and them."

"I appreciate that" she responded simply, not looking at Bell as she spoke. "But I was not lying to you the other day. I do not know who attacked me. They wore all black, had their face covered by a mask. My memory is not... it is hazy, you understand."

"We know, Mrs Mathers. And I'm sorry for keep having to drag this up, and make you relive it all" stated Gregson, leaning across the desk as he spoke. "But we need complete disclosure from you, alright? It is essential that you tell us everything that you know." Mrs Mathers nodded hesitantly, before unfolding her arms and resting her clasped hands on the table, and staring steely at Gregson as he spoke.

"My husband's presence, combined with the... the affect of the attack itself, made it difficult for me to be completely forthcoming" she stated simply, in a cool and dismissive tone. "Now, what is it that you want to know?"

Gregson reached into a file by his side and pulled out a small selection of photographs. Amongst them was Jake Thompson, as well as the man Mrs Mathers recently dismissed from her staff. She stared at the images blankly for a few moments, before casting an accusatory glance up at the Captain, who met her gaze.

"Do you recognise either of these men?" Gregson asked, pushing the photos closer to her. Mrs Mathers pursed her lips, and tapped lightly upon the image of Mr Pierce, her former employee, before beginning to speak.

"Riley Pierce was... highly unsuitable. He was rude, he was untrustworthy. A thoroughly incompetent individual" she began, adopting the tone of voice she would use in the boardroom. "He was dismissed from his position several months ago" she continued, pushing his photograph back towards Gregson. "So why do I find myself staring at his image now?"

"Was he the man you were having the affair with?" Sherlock asked, as he leaned against the wall with his arms folded.

"Most certainly not" Mrs Mathers returned, staring coldly at him.

"Do you believe he could be the person who attacked you four nights ago?" Joan asked gently, wishing to relieve the tension in the room.

"I don't know" she said simply, casting her gaze onto Joan.

"Really?" Joan asked. "It's just... with every question we've asked you so far, you've given a fairly specific or certain answer. But not now" she continued, speaking gently as she probed the issue further. "Why's that?"

"As I've already said, Miss Watson" she began, crossing her arms once more. "My memory of that night is far from complete. All I remember about this individual is that he was tall, dressed all in black, slim, strong. Beyond that, I am afraid that I am utterly unable to assist you in ascertaining his identity."

"Alright" Joan responded eventually, nodding as she spoke. "And what about this man?" she continued, indicating the image of Jake Thompson. "Have you seen him before?"

"No" Mrs Mathers responded, her gaze not leaving Joan's face. "I have never seen that man before."

"You are quite certain?" asked Sherlock from the back of the room, as he shifted slightly on the spot.

"Yes" she answered instantly, tilting her head to the side to watch him as she spoke.

"So you weren't having an affair with him either?" Sherlock added.

Mrs Mathers' eyes were alight with rage, and for a moment Joan thought she was actually going to stand up and cross the room to approach Sherlock. Thankfully, her fears were allayed when the businesswoman began to address the question.

"I was not" she began, staring at him with such intensity that Joan felt as though she could feel the power behind the woman's stare. "And I do not understand your obsession with... with the person in question. I assure you, the information you are trying to obtain is irrelevant."

"How can you be so sure?" Gregson asked.

"Because the person in question most certainly did not attack me."

"How do you know?" asked Sherlock incredulously. "I mean, you said yourself, that your recollection of the events of that night is hazy, and that you know relatively little about the characteristics or features of the person who attacked you. So, how do you know that it was not your lover?"

"The description does not fit" she returned immediately, looking towards Sherlock with disdain.

"In what sense?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

Mrs Mathers' temper, which she had been attempting to control, was not lasting. She was growing incredibly impatient with what she deemed to be a tiresome line of questioning.

"Are you asking me this because you genuinely believe the person to be a suspect, or simply because you want the details on my extra-marital affairs?" she asked coldly, staring at Sherlock once more.

"Affairs?" He repeated. "Plural? More than one?"

"No" she returned immediately. "No, Mr Holmes, I assure you. One was quite enough."

"Bad break up, was it?" he returned, but Mrs Mathers did not take the bait. She simply scoffed once more, before giving him another of her now trademark cold glares.

"Mr Holmes, believe me, you are wrong. Why are you so invested in this particular line of enquiry?" Sherlock pushed himself from the wall slightly, uncrossing his arms and placing them by his side as he spoke.

"Because your attack, as well as the attacks on the other women, was personal. It was cold, it was cruel, and it was calculated. It was carried out by an individual with a passionate hatred of the women. A passionate hatred of _you_, Mrs Mathers. Now, I ask you, what could inspire such hatred more than a jilted lover?"

"Any number of things, I presume" she returned, having been seemingly unaffected by his words.

"Mrs Mathers, forgive me for the question" Joan began, drawing the irate woman's attention back towards her. "But do you think it's possible that your husband could have found out about your affair."

"Absolutely not, no" she returned immediately, shifting slightly in her seat as she recrossed her arms. "In any case, my husband is not a violent man."

"Which, unfortunately for him, may be a sign of his guilt" Sherlock stated simply, as he began to gesture with his hands. "The person we are looking for appears calm and patient, but beneath that exterior is burning hatred and extreme anger. Anger which, if not dealt with, will only lead to the deaths of other women, and a possible second attempt on your own life." He continued, staring back at Mrs Mathers with conviction. She seemed completely unaffected by his words, and he was growing frustrated at her attempts to stonewall them at every possible opportunity.

"My husband is not the man you are looking for. In any case, he was out of town the night it happened. He arrived back this morning and came straight from the airport."

"Actually he didn't" Joan stated, in a soft and respectful tone. "We checked with customs. Your husband did not return at 7.56am as he claimed. Instead, he took an earlier flight, and touched down in the city at 8.47pm the night before, almost twelve hours before he said he did."

Mrs Mathers seemed to be visibly taken aback by this news. Her calm exterior had begun to break down, and her eyes adopted a wild and frightened look. But within moments, this was gone, and her cold and aloof expression had returned.

"That's impossible" she stated in a low tone, her voice slightly shaky.

"We've double checked, Mrs Mathers. He arrived at the airport the evening before." Sherlock stated simply. "Now, can you think of any reason why he would lie to you?"

"No" she replied, shaking her head as she spoke. "But there will be an explanation."

"Indeed" he stated, nodding her head slowly. "And one explanation that we must consider, is whether he caught an earlier flight in order to attempt to make you pay for your indiscretion."

"You're wrong" she stated, her voice slightly choked. Sherlock was slightly taken aback by this, and leaned back into the wall as he considered her words. It was not just the words, but the sentiment, and the tone. They reminded him very much of Joan's use of the same words just a few days before whilst on the roof, when he rebuffed her beliefs and statements regarding the nature of their relationship. He shook this memory from his mind, and attempted to suppress the feelings of guilt which were rising within him. As he did so, he turned back to Mrs Mathers, and continued to talk.

"And you are quite certain that-"

"He does not know about the affair, and he did not attack me last night" she stated acidly. "He couldn't have."

"Why?" Joan asked tentatively, unclasping her hands and resting them on her lap.

"He's my husband" she stated simply, her voice choked by anger. "He is not capable of something like this."

"People are often capable of things other never expected. Even things that they themselves never expected, Mrs Mathers" Sherlock stated, his voice low and almost respectful. "But it is something we must consider."

"Consider it all you like" she spat, pushing her chair out as she rose from the table. "But you are wrong. And all the time you are spending accusing my husband, my former employee, and this guy-" she paused, raising the picture of Jake Thompson from the table, before throwing it back down in anger. "You are allowing the true perpetrator to evade you. It is you who is running out of time, not me." As she turned to leave, Captain Gregson rose from his seat, and took a step towards her.

"Mrs Mathers, please sit down, we need to-"

"No, thank you Captain" she stated simply. "I would like to go home."

"Home?" Joan asked. "As in your apartment?"

"Of course" she responded obliviously. "Where else would I go?"

"Mrs Mathers, will you accept police protection? I wanna have a security detail ensure that-"

"In case my husband tries to kill me again?" She spat, staring back at Gregson with a hateful expression. "Thank you, but I'll take my chances."

With that, Mrs Mathers stormed out of the office, causing the forlorn detectives in the room to sigh in frustration. Joan rested her head in her hand, closing her eyes for a moment as she considered the turbulent events of the previous few minutes. She snapped out of her thoughts as the door slammed after Mrs Mathers, which shocked her into action. Joan began collecting the papers which lay across the desk, and was placing them back into their relevant files. As she did so, she ran her fingers over the image of Jake Thomson, before raising the image from the table and staring at it for a few seconds.

"You're letting him go, aren't you?" Joan asked, in a low and slightly tired tone.

"I don't have a choice" Gregson shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "But I'm gonna have him tailed. If he so much as runs a red light, I'm gonna haul him straight back in here." Gregson grabbed some files from the desk and made his way to the door, with Bell following close behind. Joan sat motionless and silent for a few moments, her hand resting upon the closed file in front of her. She considered the exchanges of the past few minutes, and her mind felt alive with thoughts and possibilities. She was considering some of the statements made by Mrs Mathers, before the sound of her own name drew her from her thoughts.

"Watson" Sherlock called gently, taking a few steps towards her. "Are you alright?"

"Do you think she could be covering for the husband?" Joan asked, drumming her fingers upon the closed file. "I mean, it would make sense, wouldn't it? Outing him would involve revealing her own dirty little secret. And maybe she loves him, deep down. I dunno." Sherlock walked around the table and took up the seat opposite Joan, where he sat for a few moments, observing her with interest.

"Watson" he repeated, as he placed his hand upon her own. The warmth and security of his grasp comforted her almost completely, and she found herself closing her eyes and savouring the moment, before forcing herself to immerse herself in their investigation.

"I think we should look into the husband" she replied, lifting her glance to meet his gaze. Sherlock watched her for a moment and, upon realising that discussing anything which was not case-related would be pointless at this particular moment in time, he decided to assist her in the best way that he could.

"I agree" he stated, squeezing her hand gently as he spoke. "There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he lied to his wife about his arrival back in the city. Perhaps he is having an affair of his own." Joan considered this for a moment, before shaking her head confidently.

"He doesn't seem like the type" she reasoned, her voice returning to its normal state. "I mean, you saw him, right? He is totally devoted to her?"

"They never do seem to be 'the type', Watson" Sherlock returned. "And his devotion, whilst deeply touching" he began, pronouncing the last two words with clear scepticism which bordered on disdain, "could be easily faked." Joan sighed as he spoke, and Sherlock could feel her hand go limp beneath his own.

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, raising her eyes nervously to meet his own.

"I believe that... anything is possible." He stated simply, before grasping her hand tightly. He squeezed it gently once more, before moving his hand under her own, placing his fingers between hers, and drawing her hand closer to him. He bent his head slightly, and closed his eyes, before planting a gentle kiss upon the back of her hand. She smile subconsciously at the action, and derived a much needed confidence boost and sense of reassurance from the sensation. She smiled at him gratefully, before allowing their hands to fall to the table, where they rested for just a few more seconds, before disentangling themselves.

"Thanks" she spoke softly, smiling as she did. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, before sliding the file away from Joan's grasp, and placing it at the other end of the table.

"Until Captain Gregson has some news on the surveillance operation on Mr Thompson, there is relatively little we can do" he stated simply, clasping his hands together and resting them on the table. "I suggest we head back to the brownstone, and look into Mr Mathers. His work, his hobbies, his personal life. But, most importantly, his reasons for deceiving his wife about the time in which he arrived back in the city."

"Sure" Joan stated tiredly, pushing herself out from beneath the table. Sherlock was surprised at her easy acquiescence, but did not wish to question it at this stage. Instead, he simply led her from the room, through the precinct and onto the street, where they hailed a nearby cab and headed home.

Sherlock and Joan spent the next seven hours researching Mr Mathers, looking into his employment history, his finances, and his personal life. Whilst yielding fairly interesting and, on occasion, slightly unexpected results, the consulting detectives could find nothing to suggest that Mr Mathers was hiding anything, had violent tendencies, or had any designs upon the life of his wife. From his recent actions, credit history and employment reports, there was nothing to suggest that he his actions were unusual or irregular. Nor did the partners find anything to suggest that he was aware of his wife's infidelity. Whilst they had been looking into the reasons behind his early arrival into the country, and his decision to keep this fact from his wife, they found that this was one of the easiest mysteries to solve. The day after she was attacked, Mrs Mathers and Mr Mathers celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Mr Mathers had flown back earlier than he told his wife in order to orchestrate a surprise dinner party for her and some close friends which, after her attack, was promptly cancelled, and not discussed with her. This fact was confirmed by the catering company, musicians, and half a dozen close friends of the Mathers'. Mr Mathers spent part of the late evening, as well as some of the night, discussing the final details of the elaborate engagement with various organisations, all of which had been confirmed.

By seven o'clock in the evening, Joan's mind was racing, and filled with nothing but grainy images, quotes from witness statements, descriptions of the man they were looking for, and a menu for the anniversary dinner. All of which, she was sad to admit, had caused her to feel rather confused and tired once more. As she pondered this thought, she removed her glasses, eased herself up from her spot on the floor in the lounge, and made her way into the kitchen, where Sherlock was preparing yorkshire puddings for the fourth time that evening.

"I'm gonna go for a run" she said simply, her voice normal but slightly tired. Sherlock turned to face her immediately, and she smiled slightly at the sight of the consulting detective wearing a blue batter-sprayed apron, as he held a whisk in mid-air. "I won't be long. I just need to clear my head, then come back to all of this with fresh eyes."

"You should rest, Watson" he said soothingly, lowering the whisk slightly. "You can always come back to this in the morning."

"I'm fine, really" she assured him, shrugging her shoulders as she spoke, in an attempt to undo the knots which had been forming in them, due to the fact that she had been sitting in the same position for such a prolonged period of time. "I haven't been running in a while, it'll be good for me. For you, too. And the case." She stated, raising her arms as she spoke. "I'm gonna go and get changed, and head straight out. I won't be more than an hour, okay?"

"Yes, Watson, of course" Sherlock responded, nodding enthusiastically, before turning from her and continuing to whisk the batter to batch number five. Joan smiled once more at the sight, before turning on her heels and walking slowly up the steps, conviction shining in her eyes.

Joan dressed quickly and left the brownstone within minutes, and was determined to run off her concerns, and approach the case with a new perspective. As she ran, she considered the victims, the evidence, and the issues they were currently facing. Earlier in the day, when she had been talking to the others before the meeting, she said that she believed that they had missed something, and she still did. There was something so subtle, and yet so grand, that they were yet to see it. As she ran through the park and along the side of the river, she began to worry whether it was too late.

At that moment, the music Joan had been listening to stopped suddenly, and the sound of her ringtone filled the air. She stopped running for a moment, breathing heavily as she leaned on the rails, before extracting the phone from her pocket at glancing at the caller ID. Her eyes narrowed in confusion as she stared at the unfamiliar number, before accepting the call and raising the phone to her ear, speaking breathlessly as she addressed the person on the other end of the call.

"Joan Watson" she stated, breathing deeply as she spoke. 

"Miss Watson" came the low, frightened tone of a woman whose voice it took her a few moments to recognise. "I... I need you to... I need your help, I-" the voice broke off, and descended into painful, unrestrained sobbing. Joan found that her breathing was suddenly very much in control, and her senses were as keen and alert as they ever had been, forced out of hibernation due to this new sense of imminent danger.

"Mrs Mathers" Joan stated calmly, in a gentle yet confident voice. "What's happened? Are you alright?"

"You were right, you... my God, you were right..." she continued, panting breathlessly between the sobs. "I... it's happening again, Miss Watson, I.. I need you to-" before she could continue, Joan heard the smashing of glass, and the scream of Mrs Mathers, before the line went dead.

"Mrs Mathers? Mrs Mathers?" Joan called desperately into the phone, despite knowing that the low beeping tone she was receiving as a response was the only answer she would get.

Joan glanced around her for a moment, before placing one hand on her hip and dialling a number into her cellphone, and placing it back to her ear.

"Captain Gregson?" she stated, her voice calm yet authoritative. "I just got a panicked call from Mrs Mathers, she needs urgent assistance, please send officers immediately, and meet me at her apartment. I'm just a few blocks away, so I'll be there in a couple of minutes." Joan hung up the phone before Gregson had a chance to respond, as she knew that neither of them had the time for the argument that was bound to happen. And, regardless of what he would say or do to try to entice her to remain where she was, she would not be following those instructions.

Instead, Joan placed the phone back in her pocket, and sprinted the four blocks to Mrs Mathers' apartment building, dashing across the busy roads and deftly avoiding being struck by oncoming traffic. As she entered the apartment complex, she made straight for the elevator, pressing the buttons quickly, before leaning up against the cool glass as the doors closed firmly behind her. She leaned into the coolness of the glass, tilting her head back as she took in some breaths, and tried to calm her racing head and heart. Throughout the entirety of her short journey to the building, she felt her phone ringing constantly in her pocket. She did not have the time or the ability to answer any of the calls, most of which she was certain would be made by Sherlock who would, by now, be rushing to her. She sighed at this thought, of the idea that she had caused him to worry. But at the same time, she realised that it was the only choice that she had. As the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened in front of her, she stepped onto the familiar landing, and found herself free from the thoughts of the last few moments. Instead, her mind was focused completely and intently upon the frightened woman behind the door just fifteen feet away.

Joan walked slowly and cautiously towards the door, which was opened a few inches, but revealed no immediate signs of a struggle. By the time Joan reached the door, her breathing was completely under control, as was her ability to think calmly and rationally. She placed her warm hand upon the exterior of the door, and pushed it lightly, so it opened halfway. She leaned forward slightly, peering into the rooms, and identifying the emergency which Mrs Mathers had evidently predicted. Less than ten feet from the front door, in the space between the kitchen and the living area, lay Mrs Mathers, silent and motionless, her phone clutched in her open hand. As soon as Joan registered this sight, she pushed the door open completely, before rushing forward to the injured woman. As soon as she had seen this sight, her years of medical training and experience had kicked in, and leaned over the bloodied body of the younger woman, reaching to her neck to find a pulse. Mrs Mathers was breathing, but her pulse was extremely weak. It was clear from her position on the ground, and the blood which was pooling around her head, that she had been struck with a heavy object, and rendered unconscious. Joan realised the need to assess the woman's head injury, and so adjusted her kneeling position in order to study her ailment closer. Before her fingers touched her bare skin, she heard the sound of footsteps behind her, and found herself frozen to her spot, crouched upon the ground.

"Don't move, Miss Watson" came the sound of a familiar voice from behind her. Joan's eyes widened in shock, and she allowed her hand to hover slightly over the exposed neck of the unconscious Mrs Mathers. "Try anything, and you'll end up the same way." As soon as Joan heard this second statement, she turned her head slowly around to face the figure behind her. The familiar figure stood tall behind her, dressed all in black, holding a large knife in one hand, and a bloodied paperweight in the other. As soon as Joan saw these articles, she felt her heart beat slightly faster, and her breath catch in her throat. She found herself thinking back to the incident by the elevator, where the killer had attacked her, pinned her to the wall and almost made her one of the victims. And yet, despite that, despite everything, she had still not recognised the perpetrator. But now, as she found herself gazing at the exposed face of the person responsible, she found herself having a near perfect understanding of all of the past events, which now seemed to be so simple, so obvious, and yet so completely and utterly unexpected.

"It's alright" Joan stated eventually, her voice calm and confident, as she raised her eyes to meet those of the attacker. "We can talk about this, okay? But I need you to put that knife down." The figure behind her suppressed a slight laugh, before allowing the paperweight to fall to the ground, where it shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces.

"I can't do that, I'm afraid" returned Maria Lennard, before taking a few steps closer to Joan, and holding the knife just inches from her face. "I'm not quite done yet".


	18. Chapter 18

Joan stared at the tall, looming figure ahead of her, and found a series of thoughts passing through her mind in just a few moments. As she gazed warily upon the poised, lithe young woman, she remembered the details of the person who attacked her by the elevator. That tall, strong individual who had pinned her against the wall, and almost made her one of his victims. _One of her victims_. As soon as this thought had passed through her mind, she found herself thinking of the previous crimes, and of the woman behind them, Maria Lennard. The young, meek PA whose heart had been broken by a lover was, in actual fact, a cruel, calculating and heartless serial killer, who was taking the lives of women who embodied some of the physical, psychological and career-related traits of her lover, with the intention of making the woman who broke her heart the final victim. _Until now_, she thought. As Joan's eyes dropped to the glint of the knife which the young woman was holding in her right hand, she felt her stomach tighten, and a nauseous feeling overcame her. How could she have been so wrong about this woman? When Maria had come to identify Jake, Joan had felt emotionally drawn to her, and had wanted to help her more than anything. Whilst they were talking in the coffee shop, her pain and her sorrow at her relationship troubles touched Joan, and she felt that she was able to relate to the younger woman on a deep, personal level. She had considered them kindred spirits, in a sense. United in the fact that they had both been left devastated by the actions of the person who they loved, and who they thought loved them back. As Joan's eyes left the blade and returned to the dark expression on the face of Miss Lennard, she found her fear and her confusion disappear as quickly as they came, and she found herself feeling something which both startled and perplexed her. She felt betrayed.

"The coffee shop" Joan stated simply, pressing her palm onto the ground in an attempt to steady herself. "When you were talking about your lover, it was... it was her, wasn't it?" She continued, despite already knowing the answer to her own question. "Your former boss."

"Yes" Maria returned, sucking in her bottom lip and lowering the knife slightly, causing Joan to relax slightly. "Not only did she dump me, but she forced me out of my job, too. She told me that I could either leave with a glowing reference, or leave in disgrace." Her eyes darkened once more, and Joan noticed that the hand holding the knife began to shake slightly, causing the blade to tap lightly against Maria's thigh. "Like she hadn't taken enough from me."

"She betrayed you" Joan offered kindly, which caused Maria's eyes to turn to her instantly. "Whilst we were talking, I got the impression you and your partner had been seeing each other for a while..." Joan stated, leaning back slightly, until she was resting on her kneeling legs.

"Three months" Maria returned, staring at the unconscious woman before her. "And then we... we almost got caught, once, here. By her husband. But she made an excuse, said I was just changing for a date which I was going to after work. He fell for it, too." She stated, her eyes narrowing in confusion and remonstrance. "But he would. He's a puppy-eyed fool who'll believe anything this bitch says."

"So she got scared, right? She ended the affair to protect herself. Her marriage, her reputation, her career." Joan continued, in a kind and gentle tone, despite the rising feeling of agitation which was permeating throughout her body. She knew that the police would be there soon, but she also knew that she was running out of time. Maria was conversational, but not calm. Behind her eyes, and in her expression, Joan saw just how unstable the young woman was. And, once again, she felt betrayed. Not by Maria this time, but by herself. With all of her medical expertise, and her experience in both her medical and sober-companion careers, she had missed this, so totally and completely. She found herself wondering what else she had missed, too. Not about the case, or even about Maria Lennard. But about Sherlock and, even more startlingly, about herself. Before Joan could consider this further, she was torn from her thoughts by a sudden awareness of how quiet the room had become. She knew that the silence would only increase the chances of Maria realising how untenable her current position was. Although she could not know that Joan had already informed the authorities, she was not in a position to be thinking logically. Right now, Joan was not a threat to her evasion of the police or criminal persecution. Instead, Joan was, quite simply, another target.

"You know what her last words were to me?" Maria asked, her face having adopted a vacant expression as she stared at the couch on the other side of the room. "She told me that if I ever told anyone about us, she would ruin me. She'd discredit me, and ensure I was blacklisted from all companies in New York, and then adjoining states." Maria blinked once, which seemed to draw her out of her temporary trance. She then tilted her head slowly to the left, and stared directly at Joan, who was watching her with a sympathetic yet wary expression. "As if losing my girlfriend and my job wasn't enough. She threatened to take my future, too." Maria Lennard's eyes darkened, and she lifted the knife in her left hand, and pointed it directly at the unconscious woman lying on the ground behind Joan. "She was wrong though" Maria said simply, her hand shaking slightly, causing the blade to tremour. Joan's eyes fell from Maria's face to the blade, before being drawn back to the young woman's face as she continued to speak. "She controlled me, she controlled the past, and _our_ future. But I control hers."

"What Greta did was awful, it cannot be condoned, and she was wrong. But she does not deserve this, no one does" Joan responded, lifting her gaze to meet Maria's cold eyes. "What about Melissa?" She asked, her tone remaining gentle, yet adopting a notable degree of firmness. "And Alexis, and Alana? What about their futures?"

"What about them?" Maria spat, lowering her arm once more, and turning to face Joan directly.

"They were innocent women, Maria. They were young, they had their lives ahead of them, and they had absolutely nothing to do with Greta's betrayal. In fact, you were telling me about just how much Alana helped you, about how well she listened and was compassionate and kind" Joan paused for a moment, suddenly wary of how vulnerable she was at that moment. "But you killed her."

"They were all just like her!" Maria retorted, her voice rising as she took a step closer to Joan, who inhaled sharply, and felt her entire body tense. "They... she-"

"They were not like her, Maria" Joan stated simply, in a low and gentle tone. "They did not betray you. They were just ordinary women going about their daily lives, dealing with their own issues and their own problems and, in Alana's case" Joan paused for a moment, and detected a slight quiver on Maria's lip at the mention of her kindly boss's name, "tried to help you with your own."

Maria's right arm began to shake again, and the familiar sound of the blade tapping against her thigh permeated the silence, and filled Joan with dread. She knew the young woman was deeply troubled, and was concerned for the safety of her and herself. But she also knew that the best way to prevent the situation from escalating any further, and the quickest way of getting Greta the medical attention that she so desperately needed, was to try to prevent Maria from feeling trapped or pressured.

"It's not too late, Maria. It doesn't have to be like this." Joan stated, with drew the younger woman's attention back to her. "Greta hurt you. She abused you, and your relationship, and then she threatened you. But she does not deserve to die. You don't have to go through with this, you don't have to take another life. Instead, you can do the one thing that she was unable to do, and in doing so, you will be truly free from her" Joan continued, pausing for a moment while Maria turned her head towards her, a wary and sceptical expression gracing her features. "You can let her go without causing her any more pain."

"After everything I have done, after everything she did to me-"

"You should be aware of just how toxic the effects of betrayal can be on someone. It changes you, it makes you do things you never dreamed you were capable of doing. And, in your case" Joan stated, attempting to choose her words carefully. "In your case, innocent people were the victims of your betrayal. But killing Greta will not console you, and it will not give you closure" Joan continued, her voice low yet agreeable. "By killing her, you would be punishing yourself in the ultimate way, in a way far greater than the manner in which she punished you. You would be condemning yourself, you would be taking the life of yet another human being, of someone you were close to, who you had a connection with. And despite the animosity, despite everything that she did to you, you would never, ever forgive yourself."

"I don't want forgiveness."

"From others? Perhaps not. But from yourself?" Joan asked gently, tilting her head to the side for a moment.

Maria turned to face her, her eyes half-closed and glassy. She appeared to be in an almost trance-like state. Joan watched her with wariness and uncertainty, as she ran over her own words in her mind, and considered whether her candidness had been a grave mistake. Before she could continue to think, or continue her discussion with Maria, the uncomfortable silence in the room was replaced by a deafening, and dangerous sound. Police sirens, which were wailing in the distance, but rapidly approaching the current location.

Maria's eyes widened, and she turned instinctively towards the window. Her arms flew out by her sides, and she exhaled deeply, before turning around and facing Joan with terrifyingly cold, callous eyes. Before she even moved, Joan knew what she was going to do.

"You betrayed me" Maria spat, her hand clenched around the hilt of the blade, which was shaking uncontrollably in her trembling hand. "She did too. And, like you, she survived the first time" Maria's eyes darkened, and adopted a sinister yet absent expression. "But I won't make that mistake again."

Before Joan could speak, Maria rushed towards her, with the blade rose in the air. Joan acted immediately, pushing herself off the ground and grabbing Maria's right forearm, pushing it and her bladed hand as far away from her as possible. They struggled for a few moments, before Joan was pushed forcibly against the wall by the door, in a manner which reminded her vividly of her initial attack by the elevator. As soon as this memory entered her mind, Joan brushed it away, banishing it to the darkest corner of her conscience. Maria was strong, she was capable, and she was more than willing to make Joan her final victim. She pinned her to the wall with incredible force, and the knife she was wielding in her right hand was coming dangerous close to Joan's neck.

Despite having been in this position before, and having fought her off and successfully protected her own life, Joan found herself believing that, this time, she would not be as lucky. She was pushing against Maria's arm, and attempting to move the blade as far away from her as she could. But her hands were becoming clammy, and she could feel her grip loosen slightly. In the ten to fifteen that they had been struggling with each other, the blade had moved six inches closer to Joan's face, and was now mere inches from her neck. After a few more seconds, Joan's right hand lost its grip completely on Maria's arm, causing the blade to move further towards her. Fortunately, Joan was able to regain control of herself, and Joan caught her attacker's arm in a firm grip, just as the steel of the blade reached her neck. Despite her recovery, her loss was a costly one. At that precise moment, Joan was acutely aware of the fact that the tip of Maria's blade was pressed firmly into her neck. A slight trickle of blood down her throat caused Joan to fight harder, pressing her fingers deeply into Maria's arm, and pushing back with all her might. But it wasn't enough, and she knew it. But she had no intention of giving up.

Joan continued to hold Maria's arm with a level of strength and conviction that she did not know she possessed. The police sirens which had been blaring in the distance, were becoming louder and louder, which gave Joan a renewed sense of confidence and strength. She pushed admirable against Maria's arm, causing the blade to depart from her neck, but at a cost. The strength of Joan's push resulted in both of her hands falling from Maria's arm, leading to the former falling against the wall. Joan closed her eyes in pain, but could feel Maria's left hand upon her shoulder, and opened her eyes in time to see the blade rose high in the air, before Maria prepared herself to descend it, accurately and fatally, into Joan's body. Joan struggled on the spot for a moment, but knew it was fruitless. She closed her eyes in apprehension of the blow, before pushing hard against the hand which was clasped around her neck. Joan then opened her eyes, staring directly at Maria, who drew her bladed hand back in one swift and terrifying motion.

Before the blade could be brought forward an inch, Joan witnessed the body of Maria Lennard being thrown to the ground, by a dark-coated figure, whose red scarf swam in his wake. Sherlock.

Joan leaned against the wall, paralysed and struggling to make sense of the events of the past couple of seconds. Maria Lennard had been poised and ready to attack, when the figure of her partner had appeared, and thrown the woman to the ground, and himself on top of her. As Joan watched the two before her, she found the sight in front of her a sobering one. Sherlock had pinned Maria to the ground, but she was kicking and flailing wildly beneath his grasp, as he attempted to secure her bladed hand. She was lying on her back and, as Sherlock moved to grab the blade, she directed her instrument at him, slashing him across the chest. Joan, drawn from her confusion at this sight, rushed towards the scene, pulling Maria's arm back, and pinning it to the ground, before extracting the blade from her grasp. Without a word, Sherlock turned the flailing woman onto her front, securing her hands behind her back with his scarf, which he wrapped tightly around her wrists.

Joan watched as he did so, before allowing her gaze to move up to his face, where their eyes met at precisely the same moment. Sherlock's eyes were wide and glistening, and his breathing was heavy and ragged. And yet, his expression was one of complete and utter relief, as he scanned her body quickly and had satisfied himself that she was not seriously injured. A stifled breath crossed Joan's lips, before she reached her hand across the space between them, and towards his chest. Sherlock's black coat was open, exposing the shredded and bloodied white shirt beneath it. The shirt was cut open, and blood had seeped through the material, and was spreading rapidly through its white fibres. Despite the four-inch long laceration to the shirt, and the sheer amount of blood it produced, the wound to Sherlock's chest was hidden and, to him at least, inconsequential. But not to Joan Watson. Joan was reaching towards him, her palm out and her fingers spread, as she whispered his name in an urgent manner. As her hand rested just an inch from his chest, the sound of several sets of heavy footsteps rushing towards the room brought Sherlock and Joan quickly and harshly back into the reality of the moment.

"Sherlock,-"

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, leaning across the bound woman between them, and reaching out to Joan, resting his hand comfortingly on her shoulder, as the footsteps hastened down the corridor and towards the room.

"Your chest" Joan breathed in response, placing her own hands upon the unbloodied areas of his shirt, before pulling gently at the material to gain a better look at the wound. "I need to-"

"Watson" Sherlock stated gently, placing both of his hands on top of hers. "Watson, stop" he spoke, in such a soothing and comforting tone that Joan's eyes snapped up from the wound on his chest, and met Sherlock's concerned gaze. He could feel her trembling beneath his grasp. "Joan-"

"Holmes, Watson-" boomed the voice of Captain Gregson, who was the first to enter the room, followed by Detective Bell and a legion of police officers. Gregson surveyed the scene quickly and, after seeing the blood on Joan's neck and the laceration to Sherlock's shirt, as well as the bound young woman who was battling against her restraints, quickly and accurately assessed what had occurred. "Get her out of here" he ordered, indicating towards the woman on the ground. Sherlock and Joan's glance moved from Gregson and to each other.

"Watson, you're alright" Sherlock soothed, holding her hands tightly, and lowering them slightly, before encouraging her to stand up with him. As Bell and two other officers moved towards Maria, and began to haul her up from the ground, Sherlock gently guided Joan to her feet, before leading her away from the arrest, and standing with her a few feet away. Her hands were no longer trembling, and her eyes had lost their glassy and vacant expression, which were good signs. He was relieved greatly to know that Joan was coming round. Before he could call her name again, she lifted her eyes to meet his own, and he saw the look of determination and resolution which often defined her features. "It's alright-"

"You're bleeding" she stated, in a tone which was almost her own, as she placed one hand delicately upon the fabric above the laceration. The familiar footsteps of the approaching Captain Gregson caused Joan to speak quickly and without her usual filters, as she was desperate to speak to Sherlock. "She could have killed you" she breathed, her voice shaking. Sherlock reacted immediately, ignoring Gregson's presence, and taking a step closer to Joan, before placing his hands firmly upon her upper-arms, and squeezing reassuringly, before pulling her towards him. Joan was wary of his injury, and leaned back slightly, which resulted in their lower bodies being pressed tightly together. Joan's breath caught in her throat, and she found her senses heightened. Gregson observed this scene for a moment, and decided to stand three feet away, which he considered to be a respectable distance.

"Watson" Sherlock stated, in a kind yet firm manner. "Watson, you're alright, you are safe now."

"She could have killed you" Joan repeated, staring at him with wide eyes, which were brimming with tears. But she refused to cry. She found the present situation, the quickness with which her interaction with Maria had escalated, and Sherlock's injury, to be completely overwhelming. But she managed to breath in steadily, blink back her tears, and resume taking in her normal tone which, to anyone outside the room, would give no indication that Joan Watson had just been through a terrifying ordeal. "Sherlock, you-"

"She did not, Watson" Sherlock interrupted, lowering his hands down her arms, until they reached her wrists. "Nor did she fatally assault you" he continued, before raising his right hand to the small trickle of blood which was drying upon the left side of her neck. Joan breathed in tiredly and contently at the contact, and felt his touch cause warmth and comfort to radiate throughout her entire body. She marvelled at this once more, and found herself lost in amazement at the affect he could have upon her, even now, in these circumstances.

"Thank you" she stated simply, smiling tiredly at him, as she found her confidence restored.

"Are you guys alright?" Gregson asked, taking a few steps towards them, and lowering his gaze to Sherlock's bleeding chest, which was, by now, partly exposed. "I'm gonna call you an ambulance-"

"Allow the medics to tend to Mrs Mathers, Captain, I assure you I have no need of them" Sherlock stated simply, staring at Gregson as he spoke, before turning his head back to Joan. "I have an excellent doctor." Joan met his gaze for a moment, and found herself smiling up at him. After surveying him briefly she ascertained that, despite certainly needing some attention, his injury was superficial, and was certainly something she could deal with. She sensed that Sherlock had asked for her assistance, in a rather indirect manner, to distract her. He knew that tending to his injury would help Joan to feel as though she were in control, that she were repairing one of the physical fallouts of the case, which would help her to heal. And he was right.

"Captain, Watson and I will be in your office first thing in the morning, and will give you all the statements, evidence, and mundane explanations that you desire. But for now" he stated, turning back towards Joan, and then towards Gregson, "I am taking Watson home."

"I'm fine" she stated with conviction, turning to face Gregson and placing her arms by her sides, adopting a confident stance. "I need to deal with Sherlock's injury, but after that we can-"

"Watson, I-" Sherlock interposed.

"Go home, Miss Watson, rest." Gregson stated gently, as he watched her with a kind expression. "You've had enough of this for one day, you both have" he stated, glancing towards Sherlock. "So, go fix up your partner, stop him bleedin' all over my crime scenes" Gregson added, the levity in his tone lifting the mood slightly, "and make sure you call me if you need anything, got it?"

"Yeah" Joan responded, her voice low and more tired than it had been previously. She found herself battling exhaustion, both physical and emotional. She was running purely on adrenaline, as well as the desire to help Sherlock. "Thank you."

"You got it" Gregson returned, nodding towards her, and grateful that she and Sherlock did not put up more of a fight. He knew Sherlock wouldn't, as he would want to get Joan home. And, due to his injuries, Joan wanted the same too. "I'll have someone drive you guys home, alright?" Gregson stated, turning on the spot and summoning two vaguely familiar-looking officers. Joan nodded in assent, and felt Sherlock's hand move to its familiar position at her lower back, as he guided her from the room, past the scene, and out of the building.

Throughout this time, and during the journey to the brownstone, both Sherlock and Joan remained completely silent. They sat beside each other in the back of the police car, their feet touching, providing them both with all the reassurance and comfort they needed for the moment. They both used the brief drive as an opportunity to go over what had just happened, to consider the events, and to process them. Although they did not speak, each of them did, unbeknownst to the other, cast furtive glances at each other every minute or so. Sherlock would glance with concern at Joan's expression, and edged slightly closer to her on the one occasion where he believed she had become slightly tearful, but which she fought back. Similarly, every so often, Joan would cast a glance towards Sherlock's chest, to reassure herself that the blood loss was not increasing. During the final few minutes of the journey, both Sherlock and Joan sat, straight-backed and alert, in the back of the patrol car, staring straight ahead.

The car pulled up slowly beside the brownstone, and it was not until the vehicle had stopped completely that Joan was fully aware of her current location. She shifted slightly in her seat, before slowly unclasping her seatbelt and opening the car door. As she eased herself from her seat, and stood mechanically in the centre of the pavement, she found that the cool breeze, dark skies, and familiar scent of the street, provided her with a renewed sense of confidence and consciousness. She spoke a few kind words to the officers who drove them home, before crossing her arms and walking up the stone steps, closely followed by Sherlock, who was watching her intently, and remained just slightly behind her, just in case. As they both reached the top of the stairs, they could hear the police car driving down the street, although neither of them looked back to confirm the fact. They had not the desire nor the need to. They were home. Joan stood by the door for a few seconds, and was about to search for her key, when she felt Sherlock's body press lightly against her back. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes widened slightly, but she did not move. Behind her, Sherlock was unlocking the door, and pushing it gently forward so that she could pass through. Joan did not speak and, with her arms remaining folded, crossed the threshold into the brownstone.

The fear and anxiety which Joan had been battling abated notably as soon as she entered their home, and yet, she was still feeling very uncertain, and fairly on edge. She took a few steps into the foyer, before pausing for a moment, her eyes widening and her body quivering slightly. She heard Sherlock enter the brownstone, and the familiar sound of the door creaking, and then closing solidly, broke the silence. She could hear Sherlock's footsteps walking slowly towards her, and she turned on the spot, lifting her face to meet his gaze. Neither of them spoke, or asked permission, or did anything to indicate their intention to the other. And yet, they acted in the same manner, at the same time, for precisely the same reasons. As soon as Joan met Sherlock's gaze, and as soon as he recognised the same look in her eyes that she had seen in his, she uncrossed her arms, and they each walked briskly towards the other. Sherlock reached out his arms, placing one under Joan's own arm, and another up her back, pulling her towards him. Joan did the same, reaching one arm up his back and pressing her body tightly to his, pulling him as tightly as she could towards her, as they kissed. The kiss was unlike anything either of them had experienced before. They had kissed passionately, and in moments of relief and gratitude, but never in a moment like this. The power, passion, desperation and need which defined the kiss meant that it was so strong and so necessary that Joan and Sherlock felt they needed it more than oxygen.

Joan moaned slightly as the kiss deepened, prompting Sherlock to run his hand up her back, caressing her shoulder as he pulled her hips to his, the contact so strong and so seemingly explicit that Joan broke the kiss unwillingly, finding that her legs felt weak at such contact. Sherlock sensed this, and drew her closer to him, so that her chest was pressed to his but her back was arched. She tilted her head slightly, resting her left cheek against his left cheek, before covering it in desperate, breathless kisses. Sherlock, unused to such kissing, closed his eyes for the duration, and could feel himself beginning to lose control.

"Watson-" he muttered warningly, as she breathed into his ear. "Watson."

The sound of her name being called was enough to draw Joan from her reverie, and she planted one final kiss upon his cheek, allowing her lips to linger there for just a moment, before leaning back, and extracting herself completely from Sherlock.

"Your chest, we-" she began, before pausing, having realised how breathless she sounded. "I should tend to your injury. I'll go and grab the medi-kit, take a seat in the lounge." Sherlock nodded obediently, breathing heavily and unable to speak, as Joan turned on the spot and walked briskly up the stairs and towards the bathroom. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, rose his hand to his left cheek, and walked towards the living room, drawing small patterns across his cheek as he did so.

As soon as he entered the room, Sherlock was struck by its coldness, as well as the darkness. He glanced down at his phone, and realised that the evening was becoming late. He paused in the middle of the room, before throwing a cushion upon his armchair, and then crossing the room to the fireplace, which he began to light. By the time he had placed some wood and kindling upon the fire, and had it roaring healthily, Joan had entered the room. Sherlock turned to her as she entered, and found that her silhouette was bathed in the burning light which had now graced the room. She was holding the all-too-familiar green medi-kit under her left arm, and was clutching a bottle of disinfectant and some scissors in her left hand, and a small bowl of water in her right. They watched each other for a few moments, neither of them speaking, the need for words not being present at that particular time. Instead, they listened to the crackling of the fire, whilst gazing at the other. It was some time before either of them spoke.

"Your bleeding seems to have stopped" Joan stated simply, indicating towards his chest with her right hand. Sherlock blinked, before glancing down at his chest, and leaning back on his heels.

"I believe you're right" she returned amiably, nodding towards her, before turning towards the armchair. "Shall I-?"

"Yes" she stated, as she moved across the room and towards him. Sherlock adjusted himself in the armchair, perching on the edge and watching Joan with interest, as she dragged a small table from the opposite end of the room, and grabbed a cushion from the couch. She placed the cushion on the footstool to Sherlock's left, and rested her scissors, antiseptic and some bandages upon it. She then placed the medi-kit by its side, before pushing the small table directly in front of Sherlock, and sitting on it, her legs parted slightly. Sherlock allowed his glance to fall to her legs for just a moment, before looking back up, and finding himself staring directly into the eyes of Joan Watson, whose face was just four inches from his own. "Take off your shirt."

Sherlock complied, unbuttoning his shredded white shirt, and easing it off his shoulders. Joan helped him to pull it down his arms, revealing Sherlock's naked torso. She had seen him shirtless before, on countless occasions, but this was different somehow. She found herself gazing at his taught muscles, his lean physique, and the gentle movements of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled. Joan then directed her attention at the wound in front of her which, as she had surmised, had stopped bleeding. The laceration was about four inches long and fairly deep, and ran across the centre of his chest, about four inches beneath his neckline. Joan swallowed slightly, before opening the green case and removing a pair of gloves, putting them on, before pressing her fingers lightly onto Sherlock's chest. She could feel him quiver beneath her touch, from a mixture of pain and desire, but mainly the latter. Sherlock's eyes widened at the contact, and he battled in vain to control his breathing. After a few moments, Joan took some cotton wadding from the case, and soaked it in the warm water in the bowl, before beginning to clean the area around Sherlock's wound. The feeling of Joan caressing his chest with the warm, soft material alleviated any remaining discomfort which Sherlock had been experiencing, and he battled to keep himself in control; an effort which was assisted by Joan, who began to speak.

"The wound appears to be slightly deeper than I believed, but it's still fairly superficial" she stated, mopping up some of the trickling water that was running down his chest. "You won't need stitches." Sherlock nodded in response, and continued to watch her carefully as she cleaned the blood from his body. As she reached across for another piece of wadding, she felt something against her neck, causing her to turn instantly. Sherlock had acquired a piece of cotton wadding and dampened it, without her knowledge, and was cleaning the blood from her own small neck wound.

"Nor do you, I am relieved to say" he returned, dragging the cotton slowly down her neck, before tossing it into the fire. Joan's eyes widened slightly, and she pursed her lips together as she turned back to the medi-kit, and searched through it for some gauze. "I must say, Watson, I am glad to see you back on the other side of the tweezers" Joan turned back to him immediately, and watched him with curiosity, as she rose a pair of scissors to the gauze, and began to cut. "Well, the scissors, then" he continued, causing her to smile lightly, and look up at him for a moment with glistening and alert eyes. "I am relieved."

Joan stopped cutting the gauze for a moment, parting her lips slightly to speak, before continuing to cut. She put the scissors onto the cushion, and pressed the gauze to his wound, causing him to breath in sharply.

"You're relieved that I am patching you up after you were sliced by a serial killer?" Joan asked in a low yet slightly bemused tone. Sherlock allowed a moment to pass, before addressing her question.

"I am glad that I am the one on this side of the medical instruments, and you are not." Joan paused for a moment, her fingers leaving the gauze, before pressing it once more against his chest.

"It's thanks to you that I'm not" she stated, in a low and mumbling tone. "But at what cost?" Sherlock was puzzled, and narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"As you said, Watson, my injury is quite superficial, and-"

"But it could so easily not have been" she stated, looking up at him whilst continuing to apply pressure. "Sherlock, you ran into a room and threw yourself at a woman with a knife."

"I entered a room and removed a knife-wielding mad-woman from my partner" he stated in a simple manner, enunciating each word carefully. Joan glanced down for a moment, removing her hands from his chest, and picking up an adhesive plaster from the medi-kit, which she began to unwrap. "Watson, what is it?" Joan paused for a moment, placing the unwrapped plaster in her lap, before clasping her hands together and glancing up at Sherlock, who was watching her expectantly.

"You could have died." She said simply.

"So could you."

"It's different."

"How?" Sherlock demanded, his voice raising as his his eyes narrowed with confusion. "Watson" he continued in a gentler, softer tone. "How is it different?" Joan thought for a few moments, considering how best to phrase what she had been considering since seeing Sherlock's wound, which she was now in the process of tending. With each drop of blood she removed, each gentle application of pressure, each piece of shredded material than fell to the armchair, she saw failure. Her failure. Not only had she, once again, failed to ensure her own safety, but she had risked Sherlock's too. As she considered these thoughts, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat, Sherlock understood. Completely.

"I put myself in that situation. Gregson told me to wait, but I didn't. If I had-"

"If you had, Mr Mathers would be burying his wife, and Miss Lennard would have gotten away, and her identity may never have been discovered. She could have killed others, too, Watson."

"I know" she said simply, reaching down and unwrapping the plaster. Sherlock watched her with interest as she did so, and waited patiently for her to continue. "But that does not justify what I did."

"And what did you do?" he coaxed gently, despite already knowing the answer.

"I put you in danger." She responded, raising the plaster and pressing it gently to Sherlock's chest, before smoothing down the edges. "I put you in a position where you entered a situation without any knowledge or understanding of it. You had no idea what you were walking into."

"Watson" Sherlock began, leaning forward in his seat, as he captured her hand with both of his. "I need you to listen very, very carefully." Joan looked up at his face, her wide eyes glassy and slightly tearful, as she waited for him to speak. As he looked at her pained expression, he found himself overcome with more guilt than he felt he could possibly bear. "You did absolutely nothing wrong. You did what I, what Gregson, Bell, and countless other members of law enforcement, would have done, alright?" he began, causing Joan to swallow and blink a couple of times, unable to meet his gaze. "You went into what you believed could be a dangerous situation, in order to do your job."

"My job?" She asked.

"As I told you the night of the charity ball, Watson, you are a protector. You care about people. It is what secures that bond between you and the police" he stated, his tone pleasant and conversational. "That adorable sense of public service, of duty. But more than that, it is your compassion that drives you, Watson." He continued, as she breathed in heavily. "By going into that room, the only person you were directly endangering was yourself." He stated, his tone low and evidently troubled. "I entered the building, of my own volition, as you did, without back-up. And I did it for the same reason, Watson" he stated gently, as Joan turned slowly to face him. "I was doing my job. A job which involves the same things yours does. To protect the people in that situation and, of course, to ensure your safety" he continued, squeezing her hands reassuringly. "Which, if I am completely honest, is the most honourable and revered job that I could ever hope to undertake."

"You shouldn't have been in that position" she stated simply, her eyes fixed upon his, as she spoke with certainty and conviction. "You shouldn't have had to risk your life to save me."

"And how many times have you saved me, Watson?" he asked gently, drawing her hand close to his chest, before spreading her fingers apart, and placing them on top of the newly-secured plaster. "You have saved me on countless occasions, and at great cost" he began, placing his hand over her own, which was now spread across the plaster. "And I am quite certain that the cost of your saving me by far exceeds the mere scratch I have upon my chest." Joan looked up at Sherlock, and gave him a tired yet appreciative smile. "I think it is fair to say, Watson, that during the entirety of the time I have been privileged to have known you, that you have saved me on countless occasions, because you are the kindest, most compassionate and most incredible person I have ever had to good fortune of meeting, and the honour of working with. But also, the most humble. Which, admittedly, is often seen as a strength. But in your case, it is sometimes a flaw. You don't realise how much you help people, how much you give to them, and how much they have been saved by you. You protect the emotional and psychological, the mind. And today, rather humbly, I might add, I was able to protect you physically. But let me assure you, Watson, the protection you have given my mind by far outweighs any protection I could hope to offer you, emotional or physical."

Joan's eyes warmed, and a small smile lit up her features, as she turned her head and stared confidently up at Sherlock. "Now who is undermining their worth?" Sherlock exhaled a small breath, before staring warmly at Joan. "You have saved me before now, you know. Several times before tonight. And not just physically." Sherlock considered her words for a few moments, before nodding appreciatively.

"Then let us consider the matter settled" he stated amiably, before raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it gently. "You matter, Watson" he stated afterwards, lowering their clasped hands slightly. "Not just to me, but to everyone. But most importantly to yourself" he stated, watching her intently. "You should never undervalue yourself. You have more admirable qualities than any other individual I have ever met. And you deserve to be happy" he continued, clasping her hand tightly between his own. Joan stared into his eyes as he spoke, and leaned closer to him until their faces were just inches apart, as she prepared herself to speak.

"As I told you before" she began, her voice trembling and slightly breathless. "You make me happy."

"Thank you, Watson, I truly hope so" he replied, removing his hands from hers, and resting them on her shoulders, before drawing them slowly down the tops of her arms. "That is the greatest achievement I could ever hope to accomplish" he continued, glancing at her arms for a moment, before staring into her eyes. "Because there is no one who deserves happiness more."

"And you?" she asked, edging forward until she was perched on the very edge of the table. Sherlock parted his legs, and ran his hands lower down her arms, before moving slowly to the centre of her back. Joan breathed out slowly, swallowing in an attempt to regain some of her composure. "Are you happy?"

"I ask you, Watson" he stated in a gentle, seductive tone. "How could I be anything other than happy, when we are here, now, as we are?"

"As we are?" she repeated, moving her own legs apart slightly further, as his hands ran down her back before resting at her lower back, causing her to arch her body forward slightly, closing her eyes in yet another vain attempt to regain her composure.

"As us" he replied simply. Joan opened her eyes for a moment, and found herself gazing deep into Sherlock's. Without a word, and without warning, their actions when they returned to the brownstone were repeated, but with much more intimacy. As Sherlock spoke, he applied gentle pressure to her lower back, drawing her forward slightly. It was the final degree of consent she required, before allowing herself to surrender completely to her own desires. Joan closed her eyes, and allowed Sherlock to draw her towards him, pulling her from the table until she was on his lap. She gasped slightly, before he leaned up and kissed her upon the lips, as he moved one hand up her back, pulling her deeper into the kiss, and used the other to draw her closer to him. She complied willingly, pressing herself onto his lap, pressing herself down upon him. She moaned at the contact, and felt a breath catch in Sherlock's throat, as he guided her upon him. Sherlock was perched near the edge of the armchair, and was kissing Joan passionately when he became aware of her moving slightly. He opened his eyes slightly, momentarily pausing in their kissing, as he became aware of what Joan was doing. She wrapped her arms beneath his, and began to kiss his cheek, neck and shoulder blade, caressing his exposed flesh with her gentle lips. Sherlock sighed heavily at the contact, and buried his head between her neck and shoulder, which he proceeded to kiss voraciously. Joan reacted immediately, arching her back slightly, as she pulled Sherlock closer towards her and further off the seat, until he was on the very edge of the armchair. She then rose slightly from his lap, which he mourned temporarily, before adjusting herself in his lap, and pressing herself directly upon him, causing him to moan in response, as she ran his hand up her back, gently, yet with notable strength. Joan drew his face towards her and resumed their passionate kissing, as he moved his hand beneath her blouse, and felt the softness of her skin beneath his strong hands. Joan gasped at the contact, pressing her chest to his, wrapping her arms around his back as she leaned into him, as he continued to run his hands up her back.

"Sher-" she breathed, sighing contently as she moved on top of him, her skirt rising up slightly as she felt him beneath her. "Your... chest..."

"Fine, Watson" he muttered breathlessly in response, as he drew his hands up her back and towards her sides, where he ran his fingers gently across her abdomen, before placing one hand on top of the fabric. "May I?"

"Mm" she moaned, leaning into him, as she pulled at her blouse, unbuttoning it quickly and deftly, exposing her stomach, as she moved her arms to allow the silky material to fall to the ground. Sherlock drew Joan closer to him, as she adjusted herself on his lap, causing him to quiver slightly, and press her body tightly onto his own. The feeling of their skin against one another, of Sherlock's strong hands pressing her smooth skin onto his chest, removed all the barriers and remnants of self-control which they both had left. Joan arched her back, before leaning into Sherlock, and pressing her body as tightly against his as she was able. They were both losing control, and neither of them were able to wait much longer. Joan felt Sherlock pull her tightly onto his lap, before he raised one of his legs, and kicked aside the table that Joan had been sitting on. He then placed one arm across her back, and gently shifted forward, before lowering her to the ground. Her legs were wrapped around his hips as he did so, and his lips did not leave hers for the duration of this action. Sherlock then reached to the side, picking up the cushion which Joan had used, and shaking the remaining items from it. He tossed the pillow a few feet ahead of him, near the centre of the room, a comfortable distance away from the fire, before guiding Joan over to the spot, and placing the pillow beneath her head.

Joan leaned into the comfort of the pillow, inhaling deeply as she rested comfortably upon it, before kicking off her heels, and wrapping her legs around Sherlock, drawing him closer to her. He complied with her actions, and allowed himself to be guided on top of her, kicking off his own shoes as she pressed herself firmly against his hips. Sherlock moaned in response, opening his eyes to ensure she was alright, before assisting Joan with removing his trousers, as they both felt the comforting heat from the fire warm their bodies. After Sherlock's trousers were cast aside, they quickly removed Joan's skirt and tights, before resuming their passionate kissing and uncontrolled and unrestrained activities. Joan pulled Sherlock towards her, pressing herself firmly against his hips. He pressed himself on top of her, placing one hand on the cool floor, and the other upon her cheek, which he used to draw her attention to him.

"Watson" he muttered breathlessly, causing her eyes to slowly open, as she ran her hand down his biceps. "Is this what you want?" he asked, in the same husky and desire-filled manner.

"I want you" she replied, equally breathlessly yet with notable confidence. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, and could feel himself becoming lost in the moment. Her next words gave him all the encouragement he needed. "Don't stop" she breathed, running her hands up his arms and drawing him closer to him. He kissed her delicately upon her lips, running his fingers through her hair, before nodding in response, and kissing her chastely upon the forehead. They then assisted each other in removing their remaining clothing, before pulling each other tightly upon the other, and spending the entire night entwined beside the comforting glow of the fire, which burned brightly with them.


	19. Chapter 19

***A/N: Hi everyone, I hope you are enjoying the story so far. I'm sorry about the briefness of this chapter, I just wanted something completely JoanLock to feature, devoid of many other distractions/themes. If there are any issues/improvements/concerns, please let me know, and I will do everything I can to fix them. I apologise if any of this seems out of character, and if it does, please do let me know. I am considering making this story slightly longer than I had originally intended, and I am wrestling with the idea of developing the romance further, before perhaps continuing with my own story-writing-tradition of Joan becoming pregnant. I have an idea of how this could work, and be different from the other stories I have written based solely on this theme, but if you think it would be unwise to do so, please let me know. I value your input, and consider it whilst writing. I know the theme itself may be boring you, as it features so heavily in my writing. So please, feel free to be blunt :)

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! HQ21

Sherlock and Joan spent the entire night together, wrapped in each other's arms, and completely entwined. Just as the final remnants of the fire were naturally extinguishing themselves, their interlocked bodies began to feel the coldness of the room, and the tiredness of their limbs. Joan's legs were still wrapped tightly around Sherlock, whose strong arms were beneath her, pulling her boy close to his own as they continued to make love. As the fire burned out and the room became completely dark, the only sounds which could be heard were the sounds of Sherlock's sighs, and Joan's ragged breathing. After a few more minutes together in the darkness, Sherlock felt Joan's legs fall from around his waist, and her body relaxed tiredly under his grasp. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he tried desperately to see her through the darkness. He released his hold on her slightly, easing her back slowly, so that she was lying completely flat upon the floor. He then removed his hands from beneath her, and ran his right hand up her side, before allowing it to rest of the side of her cheek, which he tenderly caressed. He felt her head tilt slightly towards him at this contact, and her eyes shone brightly through the darkness.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, running his fingers delicately down her cheek, before pausing nervously at the edge of her jaw. Just as he considered removing himself completely from her, he felt Joan shift slightly beneath him, and place her own hand over his own.

"Yes" she breathed, drawing his hand to her lips, and kissing it briefly, before exhaling shakily. "Are you?"

"Are you quite sure, Watson?" he returned, his hand weakening slightly beneath her grasp. She responded to this immediately, by pushing herself up from the ground, and kissing him with a fierce and passionate intensity which reassured him that she was fine. More than fine, actually. She then adjusted her legs slightly, drawing him closer to her, before running her hands gently up his biceps, and then pressing her thighs tightly against his sides, causing him to exhale shakily. Sherlock then closed his eyes, placed his left cheek beside her own, and nuzzled her for a few moments, covering her neck and cheek with kisses.

"I'm cold" she breathed, running her hand up his arm and allowing it to rest on his shoulder. As soon as she spoke, Sherlock stopped kissing her, and she could feel his body tense slightly as he pushed himself from the ground. "But I don't want you to move" she breathed huskily, drawing him back on top of her. "I don't want either of us to move."

"Watson" he spoke gently, running his finger tenderly down her cheek and towards her mouth. She turned her head to face him, just as his fingers reached her lips. He drew his index finger gently over her top lip, and drew it down her chin. "This evening is very cold. I do not wish you to be uncomfortable." 

"I am far from uncomfortable" she breathed, drawing his finger back towards her mouth, before kissing it gently. "I don't want you to leave."

"I assure you, Watson" Sherlock began, running his hand down her side, before allowing it to rest upon her hip. "I will never leave."

The silence hung between them for a few seconds, but even through the darkness, Sherlock was aware that Joan was smiling. He leant towards her, entwining his right hand with her left, before kissing her passionately once more.

"I would only ever depart temporarily" he stated, as he removed his body from hers, and reached for something behind her, "and only to ensure your comfort" he continued, as he resumed his previous position. Joan placed her hands upon his biceps once more, and adjusted herself under him, as he drew a thick, woollen blanket across them both. Joan found herself surprised at how the combination of Sherlock's body and the blanket seemed to warm her almost instantly, and she found herself sighing gratefully and contently into Sherlock's ear, causing him to quiver. She felt his body relax onto hers, and she moved herself gently beneath him, before tilting her head to the left and kissing him chastely upon the cheek. Sherlock felt completely and utterly relaxed at this moment, and allowed himself to ease his body onto her own, and rest his head in the crook of her neck. After a few moments, he realised that his own bodyweight was greater than Joan's, and he became acutely aware of how much pressure his body was placing upon her own. She felt him tense beneath her at this moment, before pressing his hands to the floor by her sides, and pushing himself from her.

She mourned the loss of his body instantly, and felt the coldness from the air and her sadness seep through the sheet, and cause them both to shiver unpleasantly.

"Shh... Sherlock" she soothed, drawing her legs higher up his body and pulling him back to her.

"I'll hurt you" he muttered regrettably in response. "My mass is much greater than-"

"Your 'mass' has not been a problem from the past three hours" she mumbled seductively, drawing her face closer to his own. "And it is not a problem now, Sherlock. Not at all." She continued, pressing her legs tighter across his body.

"Watson" he mumbled, a faint yet notable hint of gentle reprimand present in his tone. "Watson-"

"Shh" she soothed, running her foot slowly up his leg, before placing her right arm up his side and resting her hand in the centre of his back. "It's okay" she stated in a gentle and placating manner, before hooking her right leg over his left, and pushing herself onto her side, causing Sherlock to turn over. He found himself lying beneath Joan, his back pressed to the cold ground. Joan was lying on top of him, one hand pressed to his chest, her right leg hooked over his. Even in the darkness, he knew she was smiling.

"Watson" he repeated, placing his hand nervously on her lower back.

"Rest" she whispered in response, kissing him tenderly upon the lips, as she slowly eased herself from his body, and lay on her right side, with her right leg hooked across his hips, her head resting by his shoulder, her hand upon his chest. "Rest" she mumbled tiredly, as she nuzzled into him, before finding herself so relaxed that she was able to succumb to her tiredness.

"And you, Watson" he whispered in return, tilting his head downwards and kissing her on her forehead. Unlike Joan, Sherlock did not fall asleep immediately. Instead, he spent a considerable amount of time watching her as she rested, and admiring with interest the way in which she seemed so utterly relaxed and completely content. As he watched her in the darkness, and felt the lightness of her breath upon his neck, he allowed himself one moment to consider whether he was the reason for her happiness. But only a moment. Seconds after this thought, Sherlock too allowed himself to sleep.

The sleeping lovers did not wake until several hours later, when the light was shining through the half-closed curtains, and shining upon their faces. At this time, Joan and Sherlock were in very much the same position as the night before, with Joan lying on her side, one leg propped over Sherlock's hips, a hand placed gently upon his chest, slightly above his heart. Sherlock was lying on his back still, with one arm beneath Joan, drawing her closer to him. The only difference was that, in the hours which had passed whilst the lovers slept, Sherlock and Joan had tilted their heads slightly, and were now lying beside each other, facing each other, the tips of their noses just centimetres away. The gentle chiming from the clock near Angus revealed that it was nine o'clock in the morning, and the gentle ticking of this clock roused Joan from her slumber.

She did not count the chimes, but she knew from the lightness of the room, and the sense of rest and vigour she was experiencing, that the morning had finally arrived, and that they needed to prepare for the day. Despite their eagerness to get away the previous day, and the activities of the night (and most of the early hours of the morning), she realised that the presence of herself and Sherlock would be required at the precinct, in order to give statements and evidence relating to the events of the day before. Her eyes opened slowly at this thought, and she found herself breathing deeper, and slightly raggedly against Sherlock's chest. She could feel her heart beat faster, and the hand which she had allowed to rest just above Sherlock's heart began to tremble. She closed her eyes and exhaled sharply, before slowly drawing her hand across his chest. Before she could remove it completely from his body, she felt the warmth and familiarity of Sherlock's own hand recapture hers, and it felt, for a moment, as though all the stress and tension had left her body. Joan allowed herself to bask in this moment, to enjoy it as much as she could, before forcing herself to wake Sherlock. This, however, was completely unnecessary. Her partner had been awake for the past thirty minutes, and had remained perfectly still and silent, enjoying the sensation of her body beside his own. He had only moved when he felt her body tense, and her hand tremble against his heart, causing him to react. He had a feeling that he knew what was troubling, and wished to reassure her. She did not need to feel afraid.

"Sherlock" Joan whispered, causing his eyes to open groggily. "Sherlock, it's morning" she added in a slightly lower and more familiar tone.

"Indeed it is" he mumbled tiredly, opening his eyes widely, and finding himself staring into her own. He turned slowly onto his side, before running his hand down from her shoulders to her hips, and clasping her hand tightly and reassuringly. "Your deductive powers grow by the day."

All of the concern and tiredness from Joan's features disappeared almost instantly, and her face broke into a wide, genuine smile. For a moment, Sherlock found a small smile playing on his lips, too. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, they simply remained where they were, bodies pressed together and hands secured, beneath the warmth and safety of the thick blanket, which had shielded them during the coldness of the night.

"Captain Gregson will be expecting us" Joan reasoned, as she leaned forward slightly, her nose brushing against Sherlock's own.

"I expect you are right" he responded breathlessly, "I have received two missed calls in the past hour, and you have three. Due to the time and inconvenience, I would imagine it was the Captain trying to get hold of us." Joan smiled tiredly at this, before lifting her eyes to meet his own, and leaning closer to him once more, her lips brushing his briefly as she spoke.

"Why didn't you wake me?" she asked her breath catching in her throat as she felt his hand running down her back, and resting just above her hips.

"I would not have dreamed of it, Watson" he responded, pulling her close to him, as they began to kiss. Joan removed her hand from his and placed it on his cheek, running her fingertips gently down his cheek as their kiss increased in both intensity and desire. A few seconds later, Joan broke the kiss, and drew her hand down his neck, until it rested upon the plastered wound on his chest.

"How's your chest?" she asked casually, running a finger across it.

"Perfectly alright, Watson" he responded, capturing her hand with his own once more. "If your work on my chest was able to survive the... events of the night" he began, drawing his hand once more up her side, until he felt her quiver beneath his touch, "then my chest can survive almost anything."

"Hmm" she hummed, breathing against his lips, as she felt herself leaning into him, her back arching slightly. Despite the fact that their current position and manner of talk was unusual, and unfamiliar to them both, it did not feel so. Instead, it felt perfectly natural, pleasant, and right. She did not have that awkward moment of wonder, confusion and regret when she opened her eyes that morning. Instead, as the light shone through the window and warmed her cool cheeks, she found herself basking in Sherlock's presence, not regretting it. She found herself completely relaxed, calm and clear-headed when considering their current position, as well as the activities of the night before. She had spent some time going over the events in question in her mind, and was satisfied that both she and Sherlock were physically and emotionally ready to deal with them, as well as their implications, whatever they may be. But right now, neither of them could afford that distraction. They needed to finish what they started. So to speak. "We have to get dressed" she reasoned, pressing one hand against his chest, and leaning back slightly.

"Do we?" Sherlock asked seductively, before attempting to draw her back into his arms. She would have liked nothing more than to allow him to capture her, to hold her, to love her. But they needed to see the case through to the end, and ensure that everything was settled, before they could totally relax. She just hoped that Sherlock would see reason sooner rather than later. "I must admit, I am rather content with our current attire".

"Or absence of" she stated, her voice light with humour. Sherlock sighed contently in response, running one hand up her back as she spoke. "I don't want to leave either" she stated simply, tilting her head so that their eyes met. "But we have to, okay? And it won't be for long."

"And how can you be so sure?" He asked simply, leaning towards her as he spoke, and planting a kiss upon her lips.

"Because" she breathed beneath his kiss, causing him to move back instantly. "Because we have plans for tonight".

"Do we?"

"Mm-hm." She responded, parting her lips slightly as they continued to kiss.

"And would you care to share these plans with me?" he asked, as he kissing the corner of her mouth.

"I would" she stated simply, tilting her head back slightly, as Sherlock began to trail kissed down her cheek and neck. "Right after we have seen Captain Gregson." At this moment, Sherlock wrapped one arm across Joan's side, and flipped her onto her back, before hovering slightly above her. He watched as her pupils dilated, and she adjusted herself beneath him, as her heart raced and her breathing increased rapidly.

"And what could Captain Gregson give us" Sherlock began, lowering himself slightly onto Joan, "that we cannot obtain by remaining right here" he continued, resting his head near hers, as he kissed her gently upon the cheek, and continued down her body.

"Closure" she whispered, her wide eyes staring up at the ceiling. As soon as she uttered the word, Sherlock stopped kissing her, and tilted his head slightly so that he was facing her. He then pushed himself up slightly, so that his face was a few inches away from her own, and watched her for a few moments before speaking. He knew that this case had been particularly difficult for her, both physically and emotionally. He also realised that it was important that she felt it was over, with all loose ends tied tightly together. It would not be until this moment that she would be able to achieve a greater sense of happiness and contentment. And, despite his initial jesting and teasing, he would not allow their own physical desires to override Watson's happiness. Not ever.

"I understand" he stated gently. And by his manner, his tone, and the look in his eyes, Joan knew that he did. At that moment, Sherlock leaned towards her once more, planting a chaste kiss lightly upon her forehead. She shivered at the contact, running her hand up his arm and gripping his taut muscles, before releasing him. Sherlock slowly eased himself from Joan, reaching for and pulling on his discarded trousers, before drawing the blanket over her, and rising to his feet. "I will call the Captain now, and then proceed to get dressed" he stated simply, as he stood before her, tall and shirtless, his eyes watching her with care and consideration. He reached for their phones, which were beside each other upon the small table, and passed her her own. "Please take your time, alright? There is no immediate rush" he stated kindly, as she accepted her phone from him. "I am quite certain that Captain Gregson is currently immersed in chastising some inept young officer whose IQ is lower than Clyde's."

"Clyde is very intelligent, you know" Joan returned, clutching her phone tightly in her hand, before scrolling through her missed calls logs and confirming that the three missed calls she had received were from Gregson. "As are the police officers" she added, flashing him a warning glance.

"I am sure that some of them are..." Sherlock paused for a moment, as he stared down at his own phone, scrolling through his contacts list before selecting Gregson's number, "... almost adequate." He smiled sardonically, partly at his witty response, but more so at the look of warning which was passing across Joan's face. Before Joan could respond, Sherlock had placed the phone to his ear, and was eagerly awaiting a response. After just two rings, Gregson answered the phone, and Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Captain Gregson, good morning" he stated brightly, before turning his head towards Joan. "We were just talking about you." Joan narrowed her eyes and shook her head, before smiling slightly, and drawing the blanket closer to her chest. Fearing that she was feeling exposed, Sherlock turned promptly on the spot, and began to walk from the room. "I apologise, Captain, the fault was mine" Sherlock stated, his voice trailing off as he walked from the room and towards the staircase. "Miss Watson and I were engaged in" Joan's eyes shot up at that moment, and found herself staring at the empty doorway as Sherlock's light footsteps up the creaking staircase could be heard, "discourse in relation to another matter. But we will both be available to you presently."

Joan closed her eyes and suppressed a laugh, as she tugged the warm and comforting material closer to her. She pushed herself up from the ground, wrapped the blanket across her chest and back, and stood up. She felt slightly tired and cold, and longed for further physical contact with Sherlock. She stood on the spot for a few moments, gazing at the empty doorway in front of her, and listening out for his ramblings or musings. She heard none. Instead, as she slowly walked through the room and towards the staircase, another pleasant sound filled the air, which conjured up memories of one of the previous nights they shared together. As Joan took a few steps into the foyer, and stopped at the bottom of the stairs, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to become completely lost in the glorious sound which was radiating through the building and her mind. From his room upstairs, where not even she had yet entered, Sherlock Holmes was playing the violin.


	20. Chapter 20

As the soothing music from the violin resonated throughout the house, Joan found herself closing her eyes for a moment, and allowing herself to fall completely into this idyllic scene. The music was a gentle hum to her ears, and her senses were heightened and alert and the sounds produced by the simple stringed instruments. She focused her attention completely on the music, and swayed slightly as she found herself completely lost in the tune. After a few moments of peaceful musings, she opened her eyes slowly and tiredly, and found herself thinking of the man who was playing the instrument so expertly, and with such passion. She found herself remembering her statement from shortly before, assuring him that they had plans that day. She had intended on taking him to dinner that night, to a quaint little bistro that she used to go to in college, which she still went to with some friends. She wanted to introduce him to part of her world, share it with him. But as she listened to the gentle and soothing tones from above, she had quite a different idea, and one she was certain he would appreciate. She scrolled through her contacts list, selected the person she was searching for, and made a brief phone call, smiling contently at the end. It was not until she hung up that she realised that the music had stopped playing.

Joan crept silently up the stairs, holding on to the bannister to support herself. She felt shaky with excitement, and slightly nervous too, following the night before. The reality of their time spent together, completely together, was dawning on her. She did not regret sleeping with him, not at all. She remembered how right and how natural it had felt the night before, during their love making, and afterwards as they lay together, entwined in each other's arms. As she reached the top of the stairs, she paused cautiously on the landing, and glanced towards the closed door of Sherlock's bedroom, and then towards the open door of the bathroom. She crossed the landing quickly and passed into the bathroom, dropping the woollen blanket on the ground as she turned the shower on. As the room began to fill with heat and steam from the rapidly pouring water, Joan looked at her reflection in the mirror, staring at it hard until the glass clouded over with steam. As she watched her reflection become hidden by a cloud of wet mist, she reiterated her previous thought, and concluded that she did not regret a thing. She slowly rose her hand to her neck, which Sherlock had just recently lavished in welcome kisses. She ran her fingers gently down her neck, before turning on the spot and walking towards the shower, and allowing herself to be overcome by the comforting heat of the water. This time, as she showered, Joan Watson did not cry.

Thirty minutes later, a freshly showered and dressed Sherlock and Joan met in the foyer, where they acted as they usually did. As soon as Joan reached the bottom step, Sherlock turned on the spot, reached for her coat, and eased her into it. She accepted his assistance willingly, and felt her whole body tingle as he ran his hands down her arms. She turned to face him as she did up buttons, staring from the top. However, her attention was soon drawn from her task by Sherlock, who had taken a step closer to her, and was buttoning her coat up from the bottom, in a deft and efficient manner. She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, and allowed her hands to fall to her sides, which attracted his attention. He paused, removing his hands from her coat, and watched her with a fiery intensity, and with the remnants of desire burning brightly in his eyes. As their eyes met, Joan felt her breath catch in her throat. Before either of them could say anything, Sherlock's hands were at her hips, pulling her towards him as they began to kiss. This kiss, like so many of those which they had shared before, was full of both passion and adoration. It was not desperate or full of longing and physical need, but of love. Joan felt her whole body quiver beneath his hands, and placed her fingers gently over his, as he cupped her right cheek. She then opened her eyes, breathed in shakily, and broke the kiss.

"What did Captain Gregson say?" she asked in a low tone, as she did up the remaining buttons of her coat. Sherlock watched her with amusement for a moment, before removing his hand from her cheek, and taking a step back. Their eyes met for a moment, and they shared a private look, which conveyed their equal happiness and contentment with their current situation far better than any words they could have used ever could.

"Captain Gregson thanks us for our assistance, and wishes to extend us an invitation to the precinct, where he would like to take our statements, discuss some case-related matters and then, I suspect, bore us to death with some bureaucratic nonsense which-"

"If by 'bureaucratic nonsense' you mean 'official procedures', then yes" she spoke amiably, attempting to hide her amusement as she reached for her scarf, and wrapped it around her neck. "I suspect you may be right."

"As is often the case." He stated absent-mindedly, as he leaned back on his heels, lacing his fingers together as his hands rested behind his back.

"Hmm" came Joan's reply, as she pulled on her black leather gloves.

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing towards the door with one hand, before walking towards it and opening it wide, allowing Joan to pass through. As she crossed the threshold, she felt the familiar sensation of Sherlock's hand resting upon her lower back, and guiding her onto the street. She leaned into this contact, and mourned it when he removed his hand at the top of the first step. As they walked down the stairs together, side by side, Joan found herself slightly taken aback by how normal she felt. It was almost as though nothing had changed, really. As she reached the bottom step, and strolled confidently towards the taxi, she considered the apparent normality which had accompanied their night of unreserved passion, and was grateful for it. Sherlock opened the taxi door for her, as usual. He then spoke to the driver, as usual, before taking up his seat next to her in the back, as usual. The only thing that changed, and which was notably different, was the way they sat in the back. They had always been comfortable with each other, and had felt relaxed and unrestrained when in each other's company. But this time, any remaining barriers of formality or platonic relations had been completely eroded, and they sat, with their legs touching, thighs pressed together. The contact was not overtly sexual, or even noticeable to external parties. But it was a closer degree of contact than they had permitted before, and it was significant. They found no reason to speak or to communicate directly in any way. Instead, they passed the short taxi ride to the precinct quietly and peacefully, bodies pressed together, hearts beating rhythmically, as they remained where they belonged: side by side.

Upon arriving at the precinct, Sherlock was surprised to find that everything was apparently relaxed, with none of the usual bustle and business which often followed in the wake of the apprehension of a serial killer.

"Was Miss Lennard tried, convicted and imprisoned overnight, Captain?" Sherlock asked sardonically as he and Joan approached the waiting Captain Gregson, who was standing with his hands in his pockets.

"Miss Lennard has not uttered a word since her arrest. I've had her looked over by a doctor, and a shrink is comin' in at noon. So until then, we're at a bit of a standstill."

"What about Greta?" Joan interposed, causing Gregson's attention to shift towards her. "Is she alright?"

"Her condition is serious, but she's stable, for now" he responded, speaking in a lower and slightly more gentle tone as he addressed the issue. "The doctors have managed to deal with her head injury, but can't be sure of the nature or presence of any lasting neurological or psychological effects" he stated quickly, using the words the doctor had spoken to him. "We don't know when, or even if, she will wake up."

"And even if she does, there's a good chance she won't remember anything about last night" Joan continued, causing Gregson to nod in response. "Perhaps that would be a good thing." Gregson gestured non-committally, as Sherlock turned towards Joan and watched her with confusion. She observed his look, and addressed him. "After what she's been through, it may be best if she can't remember being attacked for a second time."

"Whilst I completely understand your logic, Watson, and applaud it" Sherlock began, in a low and respectful tone, which she believed to be sincere, "the physical evidence against Miss Lennard is lacking. Confirmation from Mrs Mathers, as well as your statement and testimony, will go a long way to ensuring Lennard's conviction." Joan nodded in understanding, before turning towards Gregson, who was addressing them both.

"Which is precisely why I called you both in so early" he stated simply, removing his hands from his pockets and leading them to the interview rooms. "I'm gonna need to take statements from both of you, as soon as possible, as everything will be the freshest in your mind. I'm gonna take your statement, Joan, and Bell will take Sherlock's." He stated simply, indicating towards two rooms. "I'm glad you took my advice last night, and you both got what you needed" he said to Sherlock, as he glanced across at Joan, and watched her with a mixture of confusion and satisfaction.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock returned, trying to keep his voice even as his mind raced. Joan felt as though she had stopped breathing.

"Rest" Gregson said simply, pushing open one of the doors and indicating for Joan to pass through. "You're both... glowing, I guess would be the word. You seem very well rested, and I'm glad." Sherlock and Joan both relaxed slightly, and Joan found herself suppressing a small smile. "I was beginning to worry about you, Miss Watson."

"Thank you, Captain, but there's really no need to" she stated kindly, meeting his eyes with a look of conviction, before continuing to speak in a simple and candid manner. "Sherlock took very good care of me last night."

"Good" the oblivious Gregson returned, as Joan passed through the door which he was holding open for her. Sherlock watched with amazement as Joan passed into the room and took up her seat, with her back to him, as Gregson slowly closed the door behind him. Sherlock could hear the familiar sound of Detective Bell's rapidly approaching footsteps, which he ignored for the moment, as he smiled with satisfaction and impression. He did not expect such a teasing statement from Miss Watson. Clearly, they both had much to look forward to.

"You ready, Holmes?" asked Bell, as he reached the side of the consulting detective.

"Oh yes, Detective" he responded, turning his head to face him as he spoke. "I most certainly am."

The interviews, which both Joan and Sherlock expected to be fairly lengthy, certainly lived up to their expectations. After an hour and a half, Joan was finally released from what felt like a small, cramped, poorly ventilated and shoddily dreary torture chamber. As she passed through the doorway and into the artificially lit corridor, she found herself beginning to empathise with the individuals who were interviewed in such rooms on a regular basis. Even the guilty ones.

"Hey" Joan stated, as she noticed that the 'in use' sign was still up on the room next to hers, where Sherlock was being interviewed. "Is he still in there?" she asked Gregson, before looking around the precinct for her partner. "I expected him to be done before me."

"I guess so" Gregson stated simply. "Do you wanna wait in my office til he's done?"

"Thank you, I-" she began, before remembering her plans for them for the afternoon, and correcting herself. "Actually, would you mind if I went out and picked up a few things? I'll be back in about half an hour, can you ask Sherlock to wait for me if he comes out before I return?"

"Sure" Gregson responded, as he walked her to the exit. "And thank you, Miss Watson, for everything. Your statement and your testimony are really gonna help."

"I hope so" she stated, pushing the door open, and turning her head away from the brightness of the street. "Thank you, Captain." Gregson nodded politely to her, before watching her cross the road. There was certainly something different about her. She no longer carried the same look of weariness and concern, and nor did she seem to exude fear or discomfort. Instead, she appeared to be perfectly rested, bright-eyed and alert, and almost... happy.

"Must've been some rest" Gregson muttered to himself, before turning on the spot and heading back to his office. As he did so, he cast a cautionary glance towards the interview room which held Sherlock and Bell. He could only imagine what was going on inside.

Joan returned to the precinct twenty minutes later, arriving just in time to see a confident-looking Sherlock stroll from the interview room, followed by a frazzled-looking Detective Bell.

"Watson" Sherlock began brightly, striding towards her. His attention was immediately drawn to the brown paper carrier bags she was holding in her left hand, and he glanced from the bags to her face in confusion. "What's all this?" he asked simply.

"Lunch" she stated simply. "It's almost one o'clock, and I thought you'd be getting hungry by now. Seeing as we've technically finished the case, and we didn't-" she paused for a moment, lowering her tone as Bell walked slowly towards them, "we didn't have anything to eat last night."

"I don't know about you, Watson" he returned, speaking in a low and seductive tone. "But I found my appetite perfectly sated last night." Before Joan could respond, she became aware of the look of acute distress which defined the features of Detective Bell.

"Marcus, are you okay?" she asked with concern. "And why did you guys take so long?"

"Oh the interview was finished after thirty minutes" Marcus stated simply, pausing as he turned his head reproachfully towards Sherlock. "But your partner here decided that I was in need of an hour and half's worth of lecturing on interview techniques."

"And I was right, Detective. Your methods of ascertaining information are as trivial as they are woefully out of date" he returned, before turning his head to face Bell. "And it was one hour and twenty minutes."

"Yeah, well it felt like much longer." He returned. Joan gave Bell an apologetic look, before deciding that it was best to cut their current conversation short.

"Sherlock, are you ready?"

"Ready?" he asked, diverting his attention from Bell and towards Joan.

"For lunch."

"Lunch, right, yes, of course." He stated, putting his hands behind his back as he walked obediently towards Joan.

"If I don't feed him, he just gets worse" Joan whispered to Bell, who smiled at her approvingly. As he bade goodbye to the consulting detectives, he watched as Joan led Sherlock from the building, and smiled to himself as she seemed to be lightly chastising him. Their relationship continued to surprise him, as did her ability to reason with him, a man who was often painfully unreasonable. It was just one of the qualities he admired in Joan Watson.

"So, which take out did your order this time, Watson?" Sherlock asked amiably, glancing down with caution at the paper bags she was holding. "Am I to have the honour of dining upon Thai food or Indian?"

"Neither, actually, I bought something a little different" she stated, pulling the bags closer to her, as she led Sherlock towards a taxi. She opened the door for him, which evidently amused him, before leaning towards the driver and whispering an address to him. Even with his acute sense of hearing, Sherlock was only able to make out part of the address, and found himself racking his brain for possible destinations.

"Where are we going, Watson?" he asked finally, as he and Joan clicked their seatbelts into place.

"I told you, we're going for lunch."

"But you have lunch here, Watson. The food is here." He stated, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "Where are we going?" he repeated, as the cab pulled away from the pavement outside the precinct.

"It's a surprise" she said simply, turning towards him and watching him with wide, warm eyes. "But you'll know it when we get there."

After a ten minute drive, in which Sherlock and Joan spoke of many matters, none location-related, the cab pulled up outside a newly refurbished building, which stood majestically in the centre of the street. It was a fairly large building, constructed from blocks made of white and grey stone, giving it a modern yet natural appearance, almost of marble. There were four large, white pillars by the entrance, and several windows were symmetrically displayed across the face of the building. Sherlock ran his eyes curiously over the building, reading the sign which revealed it's title, before observing that some nearby signs revealed that the grand opening was 'coming soon'.

"Your city's newest and most interesting attraction" he began, in a pleasant and curious tone. "The New York Museum of Etymology, the city's latest attempt to provide displays, education and even lectures on the world's insects, particularly those native to this country" he continued, before leaning back in his seat. "I have been following the construction of this place for months now, but I am sorry to say that we are too early to view the exhibits. The grand opening is not for another week" he stated, turning towards her as he spoke. As he faced her, he found that Joan was staring at him kindly, with a placating look of warmth and contentment playing on her features. She looked serene.

"Don't be so sure" she stated, before opening her door and exiting the cab. Sherlock stared after her for a few moments, and was not broken from his trance until he observed her thanking the driver and paying the fare, before she opened his door for him. Sherlock stepped out cautiously, and stood slightly in front of Joan, watching her expectantly for an explanation. "Over these past few weeks, you've taken me to so many places. You have really allowed me to enter your world, more completely and in more depth than I ever thought it possible" she stated, her voice gentle and kind. "I know you don't find it easy, and I know that you have been going out of your way to do things for me, to ensure that I am happy, that I am taken care of" she paused for a moment, staring analytically at his face, which remained impassive. "So I wanted to thank you. Properly, I mean, by taking you somewhere I thought you'd want to go" she continued, before turning on the spot and taking a step towards the building. "Follow me." Sherlock obeyed, and strolled with Joan up the stone steps and towards the museum, which stood grand and tall before him.

"If you're thinking of breaking in, Watson, I must strongly advise against it" he began, as they reached the front door. Joan rested her hand upon the door handle and turned to face him, a look of amusement playing on her features. "They are bound to have the latest and most up to date CCTV equipment, alarms, and-" before he could continue, Joan pressed down upon the handle and swung the door open, standing to the side for a moment to allow him to pass through. He stared at the door in confusion for a moment, before glancing from the handle, to the inside of the building, and then back to Joan, who was watching him with feigned amusement.

"The CCTV cameras aren't being connected until Friday" she stated simply, as she watched as his curious eyes observed her with interest. "I'm friends with the curator" she added, watching as realisation swept over his features. "I operated on one of his daughters last summer, and we ran into each other a couple of weeks ago, and he told me about this. Of course, I knew immediately that it was something that would interest you, and intended on getting us tickets to the opening night" she indicated towards the building, before glancing back towards Sherlock. "But I called him this morning and, after explaining that I have a friend with a keen interest in everything both creepy and crawly, he gave me permission to take you on a tour of the museum, before the grand opening." Sherlock's eyes lit up, and he stared at Joan with a mixture of both gratitude and awe. He was clearly deeply touched. "You will be the first person to see the exhibits, which are complete, running and fully-functional" she continued, before pushing the door open and indicating into the building. "Harvey, the curator, will be back in an hour, by which time the decorators will be arriving to add the finishing touches. So we haven't got too long, I'm afraid."

Sherlock found himself unable to speak or move, and was simply gazing into the room, attempting to discern its contents through the darkness. Joan Watson continued to amaze, astound and utterly bewilder him. She was the most unpredictable and delightfully thoughtful person he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. And this latest gesture was another in the long line of kindnesses which she had bestowed upon him. He was exceptionally grateful for it, and would show her so.

"Thank you, Watson" he breathed, as their eyes met, and their gaze held.

"Thank you" she returned, offering him a warm smile. They remained still for a few moments, before Joan broke the silence. "But as I said, we only have an hour, so-"

"Yes, of course, Watson" he stated kindly, nodding towards her as he passed into the building, and looked around approvingly.

The building itself was rather large, and seemed much greater than it appeared from the outside, if that was possible. Sherlock and Joan walked together down the corridors, admiring exhibits, discussing various artefacts and samples, and listening to the educational videos, the sound from which resonated throughout the almost empty building. As they entered each room, Joan watched with happiness and awe as Sherlock's features seemed to light up, and he would walk quickly towards something he recognised, gesturing to it wildly, before speaking in a quick and animated fashion about the insect, larvae, habitat, or other item. Joan was happy to see him so content and so relaxed, and was grateful that she was able to share this time with him. She was also glad that he seemed to be enjoying their trip. After about twenty minutes, she ushered him from the room which displayed butterflies from South America, and led him down the corridor to a large door at the end, which was tall and made from dark wood.

"I thought we could check this room out, and eat inside" she stated genially, as she reached for the handle and pushed the heavy door open. "I think you'll really like this room, Sherlock" she added in a low and pleasant tone. Sherlock nodded appreciatively at her, before walking past her and into the room, which she stared at with awe. It was the room dedicated to 'The History of the Honey Bee'.

Unlike the other rooms, this room was almost completely interactive, and filled with a multitude of items which Sherlock considered with interest. The room itself was fairly large, with dark wooden floors, and walls decorated to look like honeycombs, with hexagonal shapes forming a mosaic across the walls, making it appear as though the entrants had just stepped into a beehive. Directly in front of them was a display of dozens of types of honey bee, charting its evolution over the centuries. There were some actual bees, some photographs, several diagrams and exceptionally detailed notes and leaflets. To the right were further pieces of evidence and information, relating to the Queen Bee, hives and the process of making and acquiring honey. Sherlock admired this all with interest, and stood in the centre of the room, completely still, with his arms by his sides, fingers splayed. Joan found herself smiling in amusement, watching as he glanced approvingly and with great interest across the room.

"This is quite remarkable, Watson" he breathed, as he continued to glance around the room. "Thank you" he added, as he turned to face Joan, who was walking towards him, and stood by side side.

"You are very welcome, Sherlock" she returned, drawing her paper bags close to her chest. "to our left, as I am sure you have already seen, is a display charting the many different types of product, process and item which use honey. They chart the use of honey back as far as they can go, and have got records from thousands of years ago to the present day" she continued, as Sherlock slowly crossed the room and walked towards the area in question, running his fingers along some of the items displayed. He was standing in front of the display, picking this up and considering them closely, before replacing them and selecting something else. "Which is why-" she began, pulling an item out of the bag, which drew Sherlock's attention towards her, "- I felt that this would be particularly appropriate."

Sherlock crossed the room once more and stood slightly in front of Joan, and watched with interest as she plucked an item from the bag, and passed it to him. It was a small white paper bag, which he opened carefully, staring with interest at the content.

"Sticky buns?" he asked.

"Cinnamon, lime and _honey_ sticky buns" she corrected him, before reaching into the second bag, extracting a bottle, and passing that to him. "Which I thought would go down quite nicely with some of this."

"Mead?" he asked, reading the label, and then glancing at Joan with concern.

"It's a non-alcoholic taste on mead, but it's made with honey, like the original stuff." She stated simply, as he smiled gratefully at her. "It seemed appropriate, really. I thought you'd like this room and, as I felt we'd be spending a considerable chunk of our sixty minutes inside it, I thought you would 'require sustenance'" she continued, pronouncing the last two words as if it were the first time she had ever come across them.

"You put a great deal of thought and preparation into this, Watson" he stated, adjusting the bottle under his arm. "I am extremely gratefully for it, truly. This has been a wonderful and truly memorable experience" he continued, reaching into the bag and passing her a sticky bun. "And I a, very glad that you chose to share it with me."

"I'm glad that we have been given the opportunity to" she returned, accepting the sticky bun and taking a bite, before leading Sherlock back towards the exhibit which he had just been admiring. He opened the alcohol-free mead, before passing it to Joan, who took a sip, and nodded approvingly. Sherlock then rose the bottle to his own lips, and began to drink. The warm, comforting liquid filled his body quickly, and he felt instantly at ease. His eyes fell towards Joan, and he watched as she gazed up at the items before her with interest. They discussed several of the items, talking animatedly and with shared interest, as Sherlock answered many of her questions. He knew more than the leaflets provided, and was particularly knowledgeable on the subject of honey in medicine throughout the ages. They spoke, ate and drank for about ten minutes, before Sherlock removed his coat, crossed the room, and spread it across the floor.

"What are you doing?" Joan asked, her mouth full with sticky buns.

"A picnic is not a picnic without a blanket, Watson" he stated simply, bouncing on his heels as he stood. "Would you care to sit down?" he asked chivalrously, indicating towards the neatly-arranged coat with his left hand. Joan swallowed the food and smiled, taking a sip of the mead as she crossed the room and stood opposite Sherlock, before they both sat upon the coat, and continued their feast.

The coat covered fairly little of the floor, and Sherlock and Joan found themselves sitting opposite one another, their knees touching, as they continued to talk pleasantly about the room and the exhibits, before moving on to another subject, at the instigation of a clearly-nervous Sherlock.

"Watson, I-" he began, before pausing for a moment, his brow wrinkling as he considered how to phrase his statement. Joan could tell that he was concerned, and evidently struggling with whatever it was that he was attempting to say. She placed the bottle she was holding upon the ground, before adjusting her position on the ground, and tilting her head curiously towards him.

"Yes?" she asked kindly, in a low and gentle tone.

"I... I feel that we-" he began, lifting his head as he faced her directly, their eyes meeting, their faces less than ten inches apart. As he looked into her warm, kind eyes, he felt completely and utterly calm, and the familiar feelings and sensations which they had experienced and accepted the night before began to return to him. "I believe that we should discuss the events of last night." Joan watched him for a moment, before nodding twice, and encouraging him to continue.

"Of course" she stated, her voice a nervous whisper. "Please."

"I... I want you to know that it, that it meant a lot to me, last night" he began. "And I wanted to reassure you that... that what we did last night, what we shared, is... it is different from the experiences which I shared with women prior to our... to our romantic relationship" he continued nervously, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. His discomfort, combined with the fact that the was clearly trying to reassure her, touched Joan, and she found herself reaching across the space between them and clasping his hand tightly in hers. He seemed reassured by this action, and accepted her hand gratefully, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I just want you to know that... that you matter to me, Watson. A great deal. And I... I want you to know that, despite everything I have said about sex in the past, how I view it and why I involve myself in it-" he paused again, glancing up at her to check whether he had made her feel uncomfortable. He had not. "Last night was not like the other times, Watson. I did not wish to sleep with you purely to improve my mind or satiate some primal need. I... I wanted to be with you, in... every sense. I wanted to be close to you" he stated, as she squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I know that, even when considering the development of our partnership over the past few weeks, last night may not have seemed odd or unexpected. But I want you to know that, whatever it was, and whatever it leads to, that it meant a great deal to me, and I am glad of it. I just... I want to be certain that you are comfortable with what happened..."

"I am" she added instantly, nodding as she spoke. "I do not regret a single second of last night."

"...and this morning" Sherlock added, as his nervousness began to depart.

"And this morning" she repeated, remembering how they had made love into the early hours. "I am grateful that you felt able to discuss it with me, and I am especially thankful that you have been so open about what it meant to you. It meant a great deal to me, too. I am so glad that it was something we were able to experience together." She stated, as she looked into his eyes, which were filled with warmth and kindness.

"As am I, Watson" he continued, adjusting his grip on her hand. "I just... I want to make sure that you are quite alright. That you don't feel that I-"

"You didn't" she stated simply. "Absolutely not. I wanted last night to happen just as much as you did" she breathed, as she found herself experiencing similar feelings to those the night before. Her heart was beating fast, almost audibly, and she could feel her breathing becoming deeper and more frequent. As she glanced up at Sherlock, she found that he was looking at her with the same eyes as the night before.

"Did you?" he asked breathlessly, as she leaned closer to him, so that their lips touched.

"Yes" she responded, before closing her eyes, and kissing him delicately upon the lips. Sherlock removed his hand from hers, and cupped her cheek, drawing her deeper into the soft, tentative kiss. Joan opened her eyes for a moment, placing one hand over Sherlock's, and beginning to speak.

"Sherlock-" she breathed, as he tilted his head down, before leaning towards her mouth once more, and kissing her gently upon her bottom lip.

"Yes, Watson" he responded, moving his other hand up her back, causing her to arch herself once more, and lean into him.

"We... we can't" she breathed huskily, returning his kiss, and pressing herself closer to him. "We... can't... in..."

"What" he began, running his hand up her back as he kissed her cheek, neck and collarbone, before moving back up her body and towards her lips. "What can't we do?"

"We're in a museum" she breathed, tilting her head back as he trailed kissed up her neck, before pulling her onto his lap. She exhaled raggedly, before gripping his arms tightly to steady herself. She felt very unsteady, as though her whole body was tingling. She ran her hands up his arms and past his shoulders, cupping his face with both hands, as she stared into his eyes. She then leaned forwards, and planted a kiss gently upon his lips, which Sherlock returned hungrily.

"And yet" he began, running his hand up her back once more as he drew her closer to him. "You are positively buzzing with anticipation."

"Hmm" she sighed onto his lips, faint traces of laughter rising in her breath.

"Tell me, Watson" he began, as Joan continued to kiss him, before running her hands up his back, and pressing her body tightly to his, causing him to stifle a moan, "is your friend, the curator, in the habit of being late for appointments?" Joan continued to kiss him for a few moments, running her fingertips gently down his back, before she pressed her cheek to his, and spoke breathlessly into his ear.

"God, I hope so" she breathed, before pressing her hands upon his shoulders, and pushing him to the ground.


	21. Chapter 21

*** A/N: Thank you again for your support and advice, it is greatly appreciated. I hope you are enjoying the story so far, and I apologise for the infrequent updates. I am slightly uncertain about this chapter, and am aware that it may seem OOC. I just felt that it would reflect Joan's actions and concerns should her partnership with Sherlock turn romantic, but again, I am unsure. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy it.

- HQ21

Sherlock was surprised by Joan's action, as well as the impressive strength she had, as she pushed him to the ground. He allowed himself to fall back obediently, and remained perfectly still as he watched her with wonder, as she drew her legs to his sides, pressing her whole body on top of his, before leaning down and kissing him passionately. The power and intensity of the kiss took Sherlock back slightly, but he responded instantly, placing one hand on her hip, and allowing the other to explore her back, stroking her seductively as she deepened the kiss. Sherlock moved his hand from her hip to her cheek, guiding her further into the kiss, which became desperate and full of longing. She moaned audibly as he did so, before adjusting herself so that she was sitting on his lap, and pushing her body down onto his. Sherlock groaned with pleasure at this motion, and she could feel his body quiver expectantly beneath her.

Unlike the night before, their present romantic engagement was much more controlled, and both parties felt more conscious and wary of their actions. Whether this was due to the fact that the atmosphere was different, the emotional link to their sexual desires was not the same as the night before, or simply because they were both wary of the fact that they were in a very public place, was something that neither of them knew. Nor did they place much attention on trying to figure it out. Not at that particular moment, at least.

Sherlock removed his hands from her hip and face, and drew them slowly down her body, causing her to shudder slightly as she released a shaky breath. Her eyes were dark and lustful, and she stared into Sherlock's bright eyes with a look of serenity. As his hands reached the tops of her thighs, he paused for a moment, uncertain of whether to continue. Joan responded to his concerns by taking his hands in her own, pinning them by the side of his face, and pushing them outwards as she leaned in to him, resuming their kissing. Sherlock accepted her movements willingly, squeezing her hands tightly as she continued to hold them firmly to the ground. She was in complete control, and seemed more confident and self-assured than ever, which delighted him. Not purely because it was benefiting him, but because it was benefiting her. He wanted her to learn to trust herself, her instincts and her own desires for happiness and fulfilment. As her hands shook on top of his, before weakening their grasp on him slightly, Sherlock realised that she was seeking his guidance. As soon as he felt her relinquish her hold on his hands, he moved his hands quickly from the ground, placing them back on her hips, and pressing his leg against her side as he turned her over, lying her on the ground as he began kissing her neck.

The gentle and delicate kisses were tantalising and sweet, and caused Joan to close her eyes and lean back, allowing him greater access to her jawline and neck, which he covered in kisses. Sherlock was now resting between her thighs, which she pressed to his sides firmly, holding him close to her. During the kisses, his cheek would occasionally brush hers, and she would plant a tentative kiss upon it, causing him to flush slightly. After a few minutes of this, Sherlock drew his hand slowly up her leg, from her calf to her thigh, just like he had when they were dancing. Joan gasped, releasing a slow and unsteady breath, as his hand pushed up the bottom of her skirt, before resting on the underside of her leg, just a few inches above her knee. Joan pressed herself firmly against Sherlock, urging him to continue, as his kisses trailed lower down her body, past her jaw, chin, neck, and near her collarbone and chest. As he did so, the hand which was planted beneath her thigh massaged her gently, causing her whole body to shake with anticipation. She found herself completely lost in this sensation, which seemed both pleasant and familiar. And yet, tinged with danger and fear. It reminded her of something, of an evening they spent together in a ballroom, just before everything they had sought to protect and maintain was placed at risk by the most dangerous threat they were yet to come across: their physical romantic needs and desires. After a few moments, Joan's eyes snapped open, and she tensed slightly, before stifling a breath.

Despite his exploration of her body, and his attempts at satisfying her, Sherlock was immediately aware of the changes in Joan's physical and emotional demeanour. He stopped kissing her instantly, and removed his hand from her thigh, before drawing his body a few inches from hers, until he was a respectable distance from her. She was staring absent-mindedly to the side, but soon drew her attention to him as he began to call her name gently.

"Watson" he began, his keen and alert eyes darting across her body, trying to understand what was wrong. "Watson, are you alright?"

"Yes" she breathed after a couple of moments, blinking out of her trance, before pressing her palms to the floor beside her and attempting to push herself up. "Sherlock, could you-"

"Yes, yes of course" he stated immediately, removing himself from her, and kneeling by her side. Joan pushed herself up into a sitting position, drawing her legs to one side before turning to face her partner.

"I'm sorry" she mumbled, her eyes narrowing with confusion.

"My dear Watson, you have nothing to apologise for" Sherlock responded immediately, his voice a low and pleasant tone. He waited for a few moments for her to continue but, after receiving no response, began to speak. "What is it that has upset you? Did I-"

"No, no you haven't done anything, Sherlock. And I'm not upset" she stated reassuringly, attempting a small smile. "I just... it's too-". Before she could continue, a familiar dull, buzzing sound came from Sherlock's inside pocket. He did not allow his eyes to leave Joan's face, or even register his incoming call. His attention and concern was devoted entirely to her.

"Will you help me to understand what's wrong?" he asked gently, his voice pleasant and soothing, and full of genuine concern.

"We will talk about it, I promise" she began, offering him another small smile. "But I think you should answer your phone first" she continued, lowering her gaze to his glowing pocket.

"Watson, I have absolutely no interest in anything that is going on outside of this room" he responded kindly, as the phone continued to buzz imploringly. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, really. I promise" she stated simply, in a quieter version of her normal tone, before leaning forward and plucking his phone from his pocket. Sherlock did not allow his eyes to leave her face as she did so, which meant that they met each other's gaze as she turned her head up as she held out his phone to him. "Please" she asked, offering him the phone. Sherlock considered for a moment, watching her with confusion and concern, before taking the phone from her and answering it.

"Captain" he stated simply, watching Joan as he spoke. "Yes" he stated, drumming his fingers upon his leg. "Of course, yes, I... we will be there as soon as we are able to. Yes, I do. Mm, yes. Goodbye." He hung up quickly, placing the phone in his pocket before turning to face Joan. "Watson?" he asked gently.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Please don't apologise, Watson, you have nothing to be sorry for" he responded kindly, offering her a small and reassuring smile. "But there is clearly something wrong, and I would like to help you."

"It's just-" she began after a few moments, before struggling to find the right words. "It's not that I don't want to, I did. I just..." she trailed off, sighing slightly, before continuing to speak. "This is such a huge step for us, both emotionally and physically. I know that... last night, what happened I, I am glad of it and I do not regret it. But I think that it is important that we... that we investigate other areas of our relationship before completely losing ourselves in the physical" she stated simply, glancing towards him with a sense of nervous conviction. "There is so much I want to explore of you, Sherlock. But at this stage, I don't want it to solely be your body." Sherlock was quiet for a moment, but his kind eyes and knowing expression reassured Joan during this brief yet immeasurable interval.

"You're right" he stated simply, in a kind and soothing tone. "This is new for us both, and whilst we have investigated and discussed the emotion sides of the developments of our partnership, we have truly addressed the physical."

"You're right" Joan replied. "I just... I don't want us to rush ourselves, and to become so completely focused on the physical. I think we should... try to exercise some... some restraint."

"I agree" Sherlock stated. "And I apologise if I put you in a position where-"

"You really don't have to apologise for putting me in any position" she stated in a low tone, smiling cheekily at him as she spoke, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "I really do not regret last night, or just now. I just think that we should slow it down, physically, at least. It is so easy to lose control."

"Of course, Watson, I quite understand" Sherlock stated, offering her a small smile. Joan nodded in response, before leaning forward and kissing him gently upon the cheek. She allowed her lips to linger on his cool skin for a moment, as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation. Joan placed a hand upon his cheek, drawing her thumb lightly across his face, as he captured her hand with his, and kissed it tentatively.

"What did Gregson want?" she asked, adjusting her seating position.

"He says that the case is progressing slower than we had hoped, and would like our assistance at the earliest possible convenience."

"Okay" she responded simply, glancing around the room. "Harvey will be here in about ten minutes, so we should probably clear up and call a cab."

"Of course" he responded simply, tilting his head to the side slightly as he spoke. "Are you quite certain that you are alright?"

"Yes" she responded, nodding as she spoke. "And you?" she began, watching him with concern. "Are you alright with-"

"Yes, Watson. Absolutely." He stated with conviction. And she believed him, completely, and found herself flushing slightly at his response. Although she had been enjoying the time they were spending together just a few minutes ago, as soon as his hand had began to caress her thigh, she found herself thinking of the dance they shared when protecting the politician. She remembered how sweet and how intimate it had been, and how they had both let themselves go too far and too fast. She also recalled, with painful recollection, how the quick progression of the physical side of their relationship that night had caused Sherlock to retreat from her, and from himself. The dance itself, and how they both reacted to it, had led to a very uncomfortable few days, when a cloud of uncertainty hung over them, and threatened everything that they had sought so hard to maintain in their coveted relationship. She did not want to risk their partnership, professional or romantic, again. And she certainly did not wish to hurt Sherlock.

"Shall we go?" she asked, drawing herself out from her thoughts. Sherlock nodded kindly in response and, after a brief clean-up of the room, escorted her from the building. As they passed through the front door and began to slowly descend the steps, Sherlock turned back to face the building, leaning back on his heels as he glanced up at the magnificent museum.

"Thank you, Watson" he stated simply, in as kind and gentle a tone as he was able. His voice was so full of genuine gratitude and thankfulness that Joan felt her heart clench in her chest, and nodded automatically in response.

"Thank you" she breathed, an edge of guilt and uncertainty present in her tone.

"I am very grateful, Watson" he began, taking a few steps towards her, before pausing as their bodies were just inches apart. "For everything that we shared inside" he continued, his eyes meeting her own. "I am very glad that we were able to address the issue, and that you felt able to raise the subject with me." Joan smiled slightly, before nodding and then raising her head so that she met his gaze.

"Thank you for listening" she replied. "It means a lot. I know that it may seem hypocritical, given what happened last night, and how much we both enjoyed it. I just... I want to make sure that we are careful. This is very unfamiliar territory for us, and I don't want to compromise what we could have, what we could be" she continued, as Sherlock watched her with patience and kindness. "I don't want to compromise your happiness."

"And I want to ensure yours" he responded, taking her hand in his own, and squeezing it reassuringly. "Whatever that may require."

"For this to work, we need to be honest with each other. We need more emotional disclosure than we have had before. Before we can become so reliant on physical intimacy, we must first experience other types, including the emotional. We need to talk about things that may make us feel uncomfortable or agitated. But it is the only way that this can work." Sherlock nodded in response, before hailing a cab, which pulled up by the pavement.

"It's alright, Watson" he replied, squeezing her hand once more. "It's going to be alright" she nodded, before taking a cautious step forward, and wrapping her arms around him, allowing them to rest up his back. Sherlock returned the gesture immediately, holding her closely to him, before planting a chaste kiss upon her forehead. She smiled into his coat, before disentangling her body from his, and leading him towards the waiting cab.

The journey to the precinct was brief and pleasant and, like in their ride over to the museum, Sherlock and Joan sat close together, their legs pressed against each other's, as they sat casually and contently in the back seat. The journey was passed in almost complete silence, but not an awkward or uncomfortable one. It was peaceful, reflective and utterly calm. So much so, that by the time they pulled up to the precinct, Joan had to check her cell phone for the time, as she could not believe that time had passed so quickly. The partners quickly made their way into the precinct, where an authoritative-looking Captain Gregson was waiting for them.

"Thanks again, guys. I know you only just left but, we have some stuff we need to discuss" he stated simply, before leading Sherlock and Joan to his office, and closing the door behind them. Joan sat on the couch opposite Gregson's desk, and Sherlock stood protectively by her side, and was watching the Captain with anticipation.

"What's happened?" he asked simply, as Gregson leaned back against the front of his desk, crossing his arms as he prepared himself to speak.

"We've got a problem" he began. "What we believed to be a fairly straight-forward, open-and-shut case may just be anything but."

"Please explain" Sherlock responded, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

"About forty five minutes ago, Miss Lennard's parents had one of those over-priced, under-mannered egotistical lawyers over. After a brief conversation with her, she consented to an interview. Instead of her usual blank silence, we received something very different." 

"Go on" Joan encouraged.

"She denied everything."

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock interposed, tilting his head slightly to the side as he spoke. Gregson sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment as he leaned slightly forward. He then began to speak in a strained and mechanical tone, in a manner that suggested he had made the exact same speech to several other people in a very short space of time.

"Maria Lennard denies any involvement in any murders or attacks. She only confirmed what we already knew, that she was formerly employed by Greta Mathers, who is still unconscious, and may have no memory of her attacks, even if she recovers consciousness." He paused for a moment, watching as the look of frustration passed quickly across the expectant faces of the consulting detectives. "Maria Lennard claims that she heard of her former boss's attack on the news, and visited her apartment to check on her. She says she found her unconscious on the ground, and had just picked up a knife and paperweight when you entered, Miss Watson." Joan nodded once, before clasping her hands together and resting them on her knee, and lifting her head to face Sherlock.

"The evidence is equivocal" Sherlock stated eventually, shifting on the spot slightly, and gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "We cannot prove or disprove her claims based solely on the evidence we have so far. Even your statement, Joan, is open to close scrutiny."

"How? In what way?" she asked, utterly perplexed. Sherlock gave her a cautious glance before continuing.

"It will be a veritable she-said-she-said, with the only evidence confirming Miss Lennard's criminal acts being her alleged discourse with you in the apartment. Based on the events of last year, when we were hauled into court and almost discredited after the incident with Detective Bell, any evidence we give which is not substantiated is open to criticism. Lawyers and some members of law enforcement already believe that we bend the rules, it would not be too hard for them to cast reasonable doubt upon the validity of your evidence in the minds of the jury."

"So what do we do?" she asked, unclasping her hands and leaning back slightly.

"We validate it." He returned simply, before turning back to Gregson. "Captain, the only way we will be able to acquire physical proof of Miss Lennard's guilt is by delving deep into her background, from conception onwards. We need to understand exactly what kind of person she is in order to determine the best way to study her."

"We're already working on it. I've got a couple of people she knows comin' in for interviews tomorrow, and my guys are looking into her history" Gregson said simply. "But we gotta do this by the book" he stated, pointing a finger in the air as he pushed himself away from the desk. "We cannot afford for any doubt to be cast over whether she is guilty or not. As far as I am concerned, and as far as the officers here are concerned, Miss Watson's evidence is airtight. Our need to substantiate it is not a reflection on you" he stated, turning to face Joan, "you have the complete and unreserved support of everyone in this station. But we gotta tread lightly" he continued, glancing back towards Sherlock.

"Of course, Captain. Miss Watson and I will assist in any way we can."

"Thanks" he stated, placing one hand in his pocket as he walked around the room. "And I gotta warn you guys, this case has attracted a lot of media attention. The possibility of a female serial killer is somethin' that everyone wants a piece of, including the press."

"That's understandable" Joan reasoned. "Serial killers are infrequent, especially female ones."

"Precisely" Sherlock stated. "Which will, I believe, be one of the central arguments of Miss Lennard's lawyers who will, I am certain, attempt to cast reasonable doubt across not only the jury, but the nation" he stated, his body language revealing his clear agitation. "Captain, this has the capacity to go very, very wrong."

"I know. Believe me, I know" he stated, raising one hand in the air as he continued to pace the room.

"However" Sherlock began, the confidence in his tone attracting that attention of both Joan and Gregson. "Miss Lennard is not as strong or as versatile as she may appear. She broke under Joan's questioning in the apartment, and I feel certain that her resolve will not hold. But until we can question her again, and lest the evidence we acquire in doing so be questioned or doubted, I believe we should pool our resources, Captain. We need to build a complete picture of this young murderess."

"We're working on it" Gregson stated, frustration evident in his tone.

"Captain" Joan began, her calm and soothing voice attracting Gregson's attention towards her immediately. "This woman brutally murdered several women, and made two attempts on the life of another. We know her name, her methods and her motivation" Joan continued, staring up at the Captain with certainty and conviction. "And we will find what we need to prove it."

"I hope you're right, Miss Watson."

"I assure you, Captain" Sherlock interposed, turning on the spot to face him. "She always is." Joan found herself feeling instantly comforted by his words, and even more certain of her own reassurances to Gregson. "We will start work immediately" he continued, his voice drawing Joan from her thoughts. Gregson then led the consulting detectives into the now painfully familiar room, which now had a new board which replaced the one of Jake Thompson. As Joan entered the room, she found herself facing a large picture of Maria Lennard, which was adhered to the centre of a whiteboard, and surrounded by papers. She studied the material on the board for a few minutes, before following Sherlock over to the large table by the window, and beginning to sift through the files in front of them.

Sherlock and Joan spent over four hours in the room, flicking through files and scrolling through endless pages of computer records, until their tired eyes forced them to take a short break. Joan stood up from the desk and made a quick coffee run, during which time Sherlock allowed his thoughts to depart from the case entirely, and focus on something which he had been forced to relegate to the back of his mind in the wake of the most recent news in relation to the case. He was thinking of Joan's fears of the affects of physical intimacy on their relationship. Or rather, of their allowing themselves to be so overcome by their physical needs that they neglected their emotional ones. He understood that, logically, she was correct, and that for their relationship to progress, and for it to develop in a way which would allow them both to be comfortable and content, they would need to be cautious. The night they shared together was, by far, one of the most incredible nights of his life, and quite unlike any other sexual encounter he had ever experienced. He found that he had connected with Joan on a deeper and much more meaningful level than he had ever connected with anyone before, and he knew that, from her actions and responses, she felt the same. Which was why, initially, he was confused by her concern over their levels of physical intimacy. But once she explained them to him, he found himself not only understanding her concerns, but agreeing with her. He wanted to ensure that she realised that he valued her above the physical and that, like her, he wished to explore more to their relationship than simply the sexual. More than anything, he wanted her to realise just how much she meant to him. And if that meant forgoing their physical liaisons for an unspecified period of time, then that was a price he was more than willing to pay. He had every intention of demonstrating just how much she meant to him, and how much he valued her.

As he was engaged in these thoughts, he heard the door behind him open, and the smell of freshly ground coffee swam in the air. Sherlock turned his head automatically towards the scent, and found his eyes meeting Joan's, as she passed him his cup. He thanked her, before taking a small sip of the soothing and revitalising liquid, before placing the cup on the desk, and turning to face her, waiting for her to sit down before he spoke.

"Watson" he stated, in an amiable and slightly animated manner, which made Joan instantly aware that whatever he was about to say was something he was concerned about. She placed her own cup on the table and turned to face him, watching him with a warm and kind expression, as she waited patiently for him to continue. "I have been giving a great deal of thought to the subject which we were discussing earlier" he began, watching Joan for a reaction. She nodded quickly, and appeared to be quite calm and content as he spoke. "And I was wondering, should you desire spending some time away from this case and in my company" he continued, raising his eyes to meet hers, which continued to watch him with curiosity and kindness, "if you would allow me to take you to dinner this evening?"

Joan watched him for a moment, before glancing down at the overwhelming amount of papers, pictures and files on the desk in front of them. She then turned from the table and met his gaze, smiling warmly at him as she spoke.

"Thank you, Sherlock" she began. "I would love to."


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock and Joan shared an appreciative glance, before continuing to work on the files in front of them. The afternoon passed quickly, with the small team barely leaving their desks, other than to collect some more files or buy coffee. Joan remained seated for the entire duration, and her attention was only drawn from her work on the two occasions that Sherlock received a phone call and promptly walked from the room, before returning a couple of minutes later and resuming his analysis. Joan found his covertness unusual for him, but suspected that he was making arrangements for dinner that evening, and did not wish to be overheard by the curious ears of Captain Gregson and Detective Bell. She paused at that moment, as she reflected upon the thought. She liked her privacy, and believe that Sherlock did too, especially where romance and intimate detail were concerned. But she still found the concealment of their relationship a strange issue to deal with. Although neither of them had spoken about it, she knew that it was an issue which would need to be addressed at some point, should their relationship continue to progress. However, for now, she and Sherlock were both completely content to explore their new partnership alone, without the influences or advice of external parties. And, for now, she felt that this was the best thing they could possibly do. Not simply personally, but professionally. With the complexity of their current case, they could not afford to have distractions. Every moment Bell spent glancing furtively over at Sherlock and Joan, searching for romantic signs or signals, was a moment that he would not be spending on the case. Joan tapped her pen on her file a couple of times, before taking a final sip of her now lukewarm coffee, and continuing to read.

During the afternoon some small pieces of information had been noticed and discussed, including some minor inconsistencies in previous statements given by Maria Lennard, and the inability of the police to confirm any of the alibis which she provided for the nights of the deaths of the victims. Although they could not find CCTV footage, images or witnesses who could state that she was where she said she was, they could not disprove her claims either. At six o'clock, Joan replaced the cover on the final file she had been examining, before pushing it in front of her, removing her glasses, and tiredly rubbing her eyes. Sherlock glanced from her face to his watch, before dropping his open file on the desk, breaking the silence within the room.

"Captain, Miss Watson and I have a prior engagement which we must attend this evening, shall we regroup in the morning?" he asked, his voice pleasant and conversational.

"Yeah, sure" returned Gregson, turning in his chair to face them, as he also surrendered his file. "We've been at this for hours, an early night and fresh eyes in the mornin' are the best way forward."

"I'll second that" Bell declared, dropping his file to the desk from a fair height, causing some of the photographs to edge out from the manilla cover. "Where you guys off to, anyhow?"

"Reconnaissance" Sherlock responded simply, as he arranged his files nonchalantly on the desk. "Some work on another yet pressing matter, but we will be here first thing in the morning detective, of that I assure you. Miss Watson is always punctual." Sherlock punctuated his statement with a brief smile, before turning towards Joan, who had stood from her chair and was pulling on her coat.

"Goodnight" she stated, addressing Gregson and Bell. "Have a nice evening."

"Yeah, you too" Bell returned. "Don't work too hard, 'kay? We'll need both your expertise in the morning."

"Rest assured, detective, our combined faculties will be at your complete disposal in the morning" Sherlock returned, wrapping his scarf around his neck before making his way slowly to the door, which he held open for Joan. "Goodnight".

The door closed upon the sound of Gregson and Bell bidding Sherlock and Joan goodnight, as Sherlock walked briskly across the precinct, closely followed by a slightly bemused looking Joan.

"'Reconnaissance'?" She asked, her voice keen and alert. "Is that what tonight is? A research mission?" she asked, her tone light and pleasant. She admired Sherlock's quick response to the question, and thought that his response was genius. She was not offended in the least. In fact, she was impressed.

"Technically, it wasn't a lie" Sherlock returned, as he opened the door onto the street, permitting Joan to pas through first once more. "Typically, dinner engagements such as the one you have agreed to accompany me on this evening, are arranged to allow both parties to get to know each other better, so that each may enhance their understanding of the other" he stated, gesturing with his hands as he led her towards a waiting taxi. "Which is, in a sense, very similar to the various reconnaissance missions which we and the police undertake" he continued, placing one hand on the taxi door, before pausing for a moment and continuing to speak. "However, instead of staking out a crack den in Harlem, or a suspected villain's boat-hole in the Bronx, you and I will be... investigating each other."

"So you're saying that it is _like_ police work, only with smaller stakes?" she asked, smiling slightly as he pulled the door open for her. As she stepped towards the seat, her attention was drawn back to him as he addressed her statement.

"On the contrary, Watson" he began, causing her to turn back to face him, resting one of her hands on the top of the door. "The stakes have never been greater." Joan's eyes softened slightly, and a whimsical smile played upon her lips. She nodded simply in response, before turning around and easing herself into the taxi, where she was joined shortly afterwards by Sherlock. The journey to the brownstone was short and pleasant, with both Joan and Sherlock allowing the case to be pushed to the back of their minds for just a few hours, so that they could embark on a very different journey of discovery.

They pulled up at the brownstone, before heading straight into their building, and removing their coats and scarves in the foyer.

"So, what' the plan for tonight?" Joan asked tentatively, turning to face Sherlock, who was just shrugging off his coat.

"Dinner, and then" he stated, pausing as he placed his coat upon the rack, and began undoing his scarf. "A surprise."

"What kind of surprise?" she asked, shifting slightly on the spot, narrowing her eyes as she considered all the things which Sherlock Holmes would deem 'a surprise'. An impromptu death at the restaurant, orchestrated by himself, for her to solve, perhaps? She could picture the scene clearly in her mind. A wealthy older heiress collapsing by the band, an arrow through her neck, giving her the appearance of a tragic Greek heroine, whose death would have to be solved in the space between dinner and dessert. Joan was drawn from her rambling musings by Sherlock's voice, which brought her back into her own reality. Into their reality.

"The unknown-until-they-occur kind, Watson" he stated imply, before flashing her an impish grin. "I have booked a table at the restaurant for half-past seven, is that suitable for you?" Joan nodded immediately, knowing that the time was currently six-thirty. "Excellent. Then I will leave you to get ready" he stated, wrapping his scarf across the coat stand, before walking briskly past her and into the kitchen. Joan remained standing at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, before turning sharply on the spot and rapidly ascending, heading to her room to pick something suitable for the evening.

Forty-five minutes later, Joan checked herself over in the mirror one final time, before picking up her clutch bag and preparing to leave. She was wearing a cream cocktail dress, made from material which felt like satin, and was soft and delicate to the touch. She wore a pair of cream heels, which she matched with her clutch bag, and adorned herself with the same jewellery she had worn on the night they first danced together in the ballroom. She wore her hair down, curling it slightly, which gave it a natural, tousled appearance. She wore a reddish-brown shade of lipstick, which provided a stark contrast to the rest of her ensemble, but gave her overall appearance a warm and romantic edge. She smoothed down her dress, allowing her fingers to float down the delicate material, before selecting a black jacket of light material, draping it over her free arm, and leaving the room.

As Joan closed her bedroom door and began to walk slowly across the landing, she became acutely aware of how nervous she was. She had experienced a temporary bout of nerves before each time she went out with Sherlock. When he took her on the boat, to the baseball game, dancing. But usually, the concern she felt on each of those occasions was small and easily suppressed, and disappeared completely once she and Sherlock reached their destination. In everything they had done, in all the time they had spent together, and in each and every intimate or tentative touch, she had felt completely at ease. It felt so natural, so relaxed and, despite the fact that their relationship had always been platonic, the movement into their current romantic state did not feel frightening or overwhelming at all. And yet, as she made her way slowly to the top of the steps, she found herself feeling almost completely consumed by fear, the type which is all-encompassing, and causes your breath to catch in your throat as your chest tightens, before your whole body feels flushed and tingly. Despite this, she continued to walk. And as Joan Watson reached the top of the stairs, and caught sight of her companion standing at the bottom, she did not feel afraid any more. She exhaled slowly, before placing her hand on the bannister and descending the stairs, as Sherlock turned from his sideways-on position to face her.

"Watson" he stated, his tone normal yet slightly breathless. He had turned to face her, his hands resting in his pockets, his head thrown back slightly as he took in her beauty. His eyes widened and his pupils dilated as he ran his eyes analytically over her body, before removing his hands from his pockets and walking towards the staircase, offering her his hand as she reached the final step. "You look wonderful" he stated, meeting her eyes with his own large and alert ones. Joan thanked him, accepting his hand as she cast an admiring glance over his own body.

Sherlock was wearing a dark suit, shiny black shoes and a charcoal-grey tie. The white shirt beneath his suit hugged his taut physique admirably, revealing his toned body and muscular chest, which Joan found tantalising. She removed her eyes from his body for a moment, before tilting her head to face his own, and smiling warmly at him.

"Thank you, Sherlock" she stated, as they walked together across the foyer. "You look great" she stated simply, as he laced his fingers through hers, before releasing her hand shortly before they reached the door, and helping her on with her coat. "That tie is perfect".

"A gift from Captain Gregson last Christmas" he stated simply, pulling on his coat as he spoke. "I think he was under the misguided opinion that dressing me like a penguin would turn me into a gentleman." Joan suppressed a wry smile, shrugging her coat over her shoulders, before turning to face Sherlock, a look of confidence and warmth defining her features.

"And yet, here you are, offering me your hand, assisting me with my coat, and taking me out to dinner" she stated, adjusting her collar as she stared into his eyes, awaiting his response. Sherlock took a confident step forward, before placing his hands to Joan's hips and pulling her towards him, causing her to relinquish her grip on her collar, and hold her hands motionless in the air. Sherlock broke their gaze, before reaching down and beginning to do up her bottom buttons, as her body was pressed tightly to his own.

"Adhering to the social codes one typically follows when going on a date does not make me a gentleman, Watson" he stated in a lower version of his usual animated voice.

"I never suggested that it did" she returned pleasantly, her voice warm and amiable. "What does it make you?"

Sherlock did not respond immediately, but his finger did hesitate on her third button as she posed her question. He began doing up the remaining buttons, before running his hands down her sides and threading her belt across her waist, tying it in a bow to her right. "An opportunist?" he offered, a playful look lighting up his features, causing Joan to smile lightly, and capture her hands in her own, which drew his attention instantly to her face.

"I don't believe that, Sherlock" she stated in a low and kind tone. "And I don't think you do either."

"I am no gentleman, Watson" he returned, his voice calm and clear, yet with a slight hint of regret.

"I guess it depends on your definition" she offered, releasing her hands from his. "But whatever it is that you are... is great. Not being able to define it is not a flaw, Sherlock. If anything, it is one of your greatest draws." Sherlock considered her statement for a few moments, before nodding in response, and leading her towards the front door, where he paused for a moment.

"I know I have expressed it already, but I feel compelled to do so again" Sherlock began, turning towards Joan as he spoke. "You look quite beautiful, Watson" he stated in a low and husky tone, before tilting his head slightly, and planting a gentle kiss upon her cheek, whilst brushing hi fingertips down the opposite side of her face. Joan closed her eye at the contact, before taking a step forwards and kissing him chastely upon the lips.

"You look pretty incredible yourself" she returned, cupping his cheek with her hand. Sherlock's wide eyes continued to focus on her own, before drawing her hand close to his mouth, and placing a kiss upon the back of it, and releasing it slowly.

"Shall we?" he asked, pushing the door handle down and holding it open for Joan, who nodded and passed through, walking confidently down the steps and towards the waiting cab. Sherlock placed his hands in his coat pockets, and watched her admiringly for a few seconds, before following her down the steps. Sherlock held the cab door open for her, before exchanging a few whispered words with the driver, and joining her in the back.

"You still haven't told me where we're going" Joan stated simply, clasping her hands together over her clutch bag.

"I know" Sherlock responded absent-mindedly, before unwinding and then glancing out of his window. Joan smiled slightly, before leaning back into her seat and breathing in the cool evening air, as the cab swam through the city lights and towards their destination. After a brief drive, they arrived at the restaurant.

"The Opal" Joan mumbled, before turning towards Sherlock. "I thought this place was still being refurbished, and would not be open until-"

"Tonight" Sherlock stated simply, unclasping his seatbelt before meeting Joan's curious expression with one of his own. "A friend of mine owns the establishment, and was able to reserve me a table for the opening night" he stated, speaking in his usual fast and animated fashion. "You and I both have the connections and ability to enter places previously unexplored and unavailable to others" he stated in a slightly lower and sombre tone. His eyes glazed over temporarily, but only for a moment. Just as Joan noticed his slightly melancholy expression, it vanished a quickly as it had arrived, and he sprung from the taxi and walked around it quickly, holding open the door and offering her his hand, which she accepted.

"We do" she stated kindly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, before offering him a small smile. He nodded imperceptibly in response, before paying the driver and offering Joan his arm. She threaded her arm through his, in a now very familiar motion, before being led into the modern yet comfortable new restaurant.

The interior of the restaurant was modern and stylish, yet exuded comfort and homeliness which instantly set the patrons at their ease. The walls were painted a pleasant cream colour, and the floors were a pleasant wooden colour, which matched the furniture. The upholstery was a silvery white, and silver candlesticks and crystal vases of exotic flowers adorned each table. At the far back of the restaurant, a rustic, red-brick fireplace was burning brightly, the gentle sound of the lapping flames providing a bass line for the other sounds of the restaurant, from the low voices of the customers, including a fairly chatty middle-aged woman at a table to the right, whose voice seemed to echo throughout the establishment. However, as soon as they entered the restaurant, and were met by a waiter, the sound which filled their ears was a combination of the tinkling of glance, and the soft tones of the violinists and cellists, who stood at opposite ends of the restaurant. Joan found herself turning instinctively towards the musicians, and was watching them with interest as she and Sherlock were led to their table. Something about them was oddly familiar.

"Sherlock, are those men-"

"The violinists I hired to play for us in the former twenties bar? Yes." He responded promptly, before pulling out Joan's chair for her, and leading her around it with his own hand. She relinquished her grasp on his hand, allowing him to push her chair in slightly, before taking up his own seat opposite hers. Their table was covered in a flawless white tablecloth, silver candlesticks, and a crystal vase boasting calla lilies. Joan allowed her attention to fall upon them for a moment, before glancing expectantly up at Sherlock. "I recommended them to the owner of the establishment some time ago, hence his willingness to invite us here tonight." Joan's attention was temporarily drawn from Sherlock's words by the sound of sniggering from behind her. She turned her head, and found two older male waiters mocking a young waitress, in a very apparent and unrestrained manner. Joan glared at the scene with disapproval, before turning back to Sherlock.

"I see" Joan stated, as the sound of hastily-approaching footsteps drew her attention behind her once more, and she turned to greet the young waitress who was approaching them. She smiled warmly at the girl, whose nervous demeanour and worried expression revealed that she was a new employee. "First night?" she asked pleasantly, clasping her hands together on the table.

"Is it that obvious?" the young girl replied, turning over a couple of pages of her notebook, before pressing her pencil firmly onto it.

"No" Joan smiled, adjusting herself in her seat so that she could face the girl properly. "You seem nervous, that's all. But you shouldn't be" she continued, causing the young girl to glance at her with confusion. "You're gonna be great."

"My dad's friend is the manager" she stated, her voice still slightly shaky, but notably recovered. "He got me the job. The other guys here think-"

"It does not matter what they think" Sherlock stated, in a low tone which was tinged with kindness. Joan was surprised by his interjection, and glanced from the girl to him, before turning back to the waitress. "Whatever they think, whatever conclusions they have already come to, cannot and will not alter simply because they are told that they are wrong" he continued, continuing to address her in the same kind and sincere manner. "So prove them wrong" he stated simply, reaching for his glass of water, and taking a small sip. "You will be able to do so by remaining calm, focused and assured of the fact that you are going to be absolutely fine" he stated, speaking in a slow and calm manner, which seemed to placate the girl slightly. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, before thanking him meekly. Sherlock nodded in response, before continuing to speak. "And if that fails to prevent those young men from being cruel or unkind" he continued, placing his glass back on the table. "Then please inform the man on the right that having romantic trysts in the wine cellar with the blonde barrista is grounds for dismissal" Sherlock stated simply, in his usual animated manner. "And grounds for a thrashing, too, from the man he was so coolly mocking you with. Who just so happens to be the young lady's boyfriend". The girl smiled slightly at this, before stifling a laugh, and relaxing visibly. "Would you please bring us a bottle of mineral water and two glasses, just so that we have a few minutes to decide upon what we would like?"

"Of course, Sir, yes" she stated, her whole demeanour having changed. The young lady now exuded calmness and control, and scribbled away professionally into her notebook. "And thank you she stated, glancing up from her paper.

"Thank you" Sherlock returned courteously, nodding towards her as he passed Joan a menu, and opened one for himself. "And, if you feel so inclined, please also inform the young man on the right that his fly is undone." The young girl's eyes widened slightly, and she began to laugh as she placed her notebook into her pocket. "If I were you, I would try to keep him away from table six, he may give that elderly woman with a heart condition and a rather tiresome husband a medical problem."

The young girl nodded, thanking Sherlock and Joan once more, before turning on her heels and walking calmly across the restaurant and towards the bar. Joan smiled to herself for a moment, before raising her eyes from her own menu and watching Sherlock with a mixture of curiosity and awe.

"Yes, Watson?" he stated, lifting his eyes from his menu.

"That was kind of you" she stated warmly. "And very gentlemanly."

"Unlike those louts at the back" Sherlock stated, giving them a piercing stare.

"What is it about them that annoys you so much?" she asked, placing her own menu on the table, and clasping her hands together over it.

"This restaurant closes in three hours, Watson. I'm afraid we haven't the time for me to tell you." Joan nodded, mouthing 'right', before picking up her menu and scanning it briefly, before placing it back on the table after a couple of seconds. "How did you know that woman had a heart condition?" she asked, "I mean, I'm a former doctor and I missed it."

"I didn't" he stated simply, shaking his head as he spoke with animation. "But being married to a man as vocal and unpleasant as Michael Geralds, the owner of the most right-wing rag in the city, is bound to have a negative effect on one's heart."

"So she doesn't have a heart condition?"

"She does" he stated simply, nodding towards Joan as he continued to scan his menu.

"And how can you be so sure?" she returned, narrowing her eyes as she stared at him, awaiting his answer. Sherlock lifted his eyes from his menu, before dropping it gently upon the table, and clasping his hands in front of him. "The tone of her voice? Her posture? The colour of her dress-"

"-the fact she said that one of the waiters who walked up behind her almost gave her '_another_' heart attack-"

"Ah" Joan breathed, crossing one of her legs over the other, before casting a furtive glance behind her at the woman in question. At this point, the young waitress, whose badge revealed her name to be Carrie, brought them their water and glasses, and asked whether they needed more time to order. Sherlock glanced over at Joan, before confirming that they were ready.

"I'll have a caesar salad, please" Joan stated, handing the girl the menu.

"I'll have the roast beef, please" Sherlock said shortly afterwards, passing Carrie his menu. "Hold the yorkshire puddings, please."

"And to drink?" the waitress asked, glancing from Joan to Sherlock.

"Coffee please" they both stated at the same time, before glancing at each other. Carrie nodded, scribbled a few words on her notepad, and left the table.

"So" Joan began, as Sherlock reached for the decanter and began to pour the mineral water into two glasses. "What made you pick this place?" Sherlock glanced up from the decanter for a moment, before passing Joan a glass, and pulling his own towards him.

"I hoped you would like it" he stated simply. "The music, the food, the atmosphere. When Richard was showing me around a few weeks ago, when I introduced him to the violinists, I was immediately struck by how much the place made me think of you." Joan paused for a moment, holding the glass halfway in the air, between the table and her lips. She placed the glass onto the table, before unclasping her hands.

"That's very kind, Sherlock" she stated, her voice low and humble. Sherlock caught the look in her eye, and responded instantly, reaching instinctively across the table and placing his own hand over hers, pressing his fingers lightly to her palm.

"Are you surprised by my capacity to be kind, or your difficulty in accepting that you deserve it?" he asked gently, in a tentative and respectful manner. Joan narrowed her eyes slightly, and he could feel her hand tense slightly beneath his own.

"I don't know what you mean" she responded, as Sherlock ran his fingers comfortingly over her hand.

"Please do not be offended, Watson. I assure you, upsetting you was certainly not my intention" he began, as she returned his grip on her own hand. "I simply meant that I wanted to create an evening that you would enjoy, in an environment that you would feel relaxed in, and in a situation where you are devoid of all responsibilities and duties. You focus a great part of your life on helping others, of tending to their needs, often at the expense of yourself" he continued, lifting his eyes to meet her own. "I wished to show you a night where you did not have to be the bearer of such burdens."

"I don't feel burdened" Joan stated simply.

"But you are, my dear Watson" Sherlock returned. "I only hope that, in the time we have spent together, I have shown you that there is much that you can experience, and that you enjoy. That you deserve to enjoy. I also hope that I have demonstrated to you that I wish to help you with your burdens" Joan lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, and found that he was watching her earnestly. "You are not alone." Before she could respond, Carrie returned with their coffees, which she began to pour, asking each of them how they take it. As they responded, Joan noticed Carrie's eyes fall to her own hand, which was entwined with Sherlock's. Carrie offered her a small smile, before removing the tray from the table, and assuring them that their food would be ready soon.

"She's the first" Joan began, causing Sherlock to turn towards her, and watch her with curiosity.

"The first what?" he asked.

"The first person to see us holding hands." Sherlock considered this for a moment, before allowing his eyes to fall to their linked hands, and running his fingers gently across her palm.

"And is that something that concerns you, Watson? The secrecy of our current relationship?" he asked kindly, as he attempted to suppress his fears of her response.

"No" she answered simply, in a candid and sincere manner. "I don't feel concerned at all." She lifted her eyes to meet Sherlock's, which watched her warmly from across the table.

"You are certain?" he asked.

"Yes" she returned. "We give our time, our resources, our abilities to others. It feels nice to be able to experience something that we don't have to surrender to anyone else. Something that is ours." Sherlock nodded in response, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, before they willingly relinquished their hold upon one another. Joan felt herself relax slightly, and allow herself to become completely lost in the music, the sounds, and the company of the evening. For one night, she swore to herself that nothing outside that room existed. And for one night, she would believe it. "How did you know it was the blonde barrista?" Sherlock watched her for a moment, his curious eyes glancing from her face to the bar, where several attractive women were rushing around preparing drinks. "I mean, there are what-" Joan began, glancing towards the bar with him. "-four, no, five barristas over there. How could you be so sure he was sleeping with one? And how did you know which one, and where?"

"Why don't you tell me, Watson?" Sherlock asked genially. "You are more than able of deducing it, I assure you." Joan turned back to Sherlock for a moment, before gazing subtly back toward the barristas.

"I guess you picked up on the guys flies being undone, and something about his body language, his interaction with the women" Joan continued, glancing back at Sherlock to see his response. "The blonde girl is very similar in appearance and physique to Carrie, who he mocked, yet was watching with a noticeable look of interest. My guess is, he likes her, has made a move, and she rebuffed him" Joan stated, a faint trace of annoyance present in her tone. "As for which barrista..." she began, trailing off as she considered the women. "Well, two of them are seeing each other, which is clear from their matching necklaces, and the way their hands keep meeting on the bar" Sherlock nodded in approval, before continuing to watch Joan as she made astute and correct deductions. "As for the others..." she continued, before placing one hand upon the table, narrowing her eyes slightly, then smiling as she turned back to face Sherlock, who was watching her with a look of approval. "The blonde girl has a slight tear to the fabric of her shirt, and her skirt is slightly askew."

"Indeed it is, Watson" Sherlock stated, wrapping his hands around the warm mug, which he began to raise to his lips. "Just as it was a few weeks ago, when I came to discuss the band with Richard" Joan watched him for a moment, clasping her hands on the table as she waited for him to continue. "He wanted to show me a bottle of vintage champagne, which he keeps stored in the cellar. The young lady and her loutish male friend were engaged in quite a different type of service-"

"Right, okay."

"-which ended in less satisfaction than their customers receive, I should imagine." 

"Sherlock-"

"-well, hers, certainly."

"Alright, I get it" Joan stated, raising her hands in the air. Sherlock turned to face her, and they exchanged a brief look. Joan's face was impassive and virtually unreadable, and Sherlock's bore the expression of a young child who had made a completely innocent yet wholly inappropriate remark. After a moment of watching each other, Joan felt the corners of her mouth turn upwards slightly, before she burst into a broad grin, and began to laugh.

"Did you-" she began, attempting to speak through her laughter. Sherlock smiled slightly at this, watching her as she attempted to engage in a conversation with him through her amusement. He liked seeing her so relaxed, so carefree. She seemed almost happy. "Did you choose this place so you could learn more about the staff?"

"Hardly, Watson" Sherlock returned. "I chose this place because I wished to learn more about you." Joan stopped laughing for a moment, and took a tentative sip of her coffee, before preparing herself to speak.

"In what way?" she asked, her voice softening slightly.

"In every way" he returned. "I understand that we have formed a close partnership over the years, and that, with the development of that relationship, has come an increase in the trust you have of me. You have discussed painful issues with me, about your father, your patient, your relationships. You have allowed me an incredible and unprecedented insight into your life, and for that I am both grateful and humbled" he stated kindly, and with compete sincerity. Joan was deeply touched by his words. "The things you have confided in me have led to me understanding you in a much deeper way than many others who believe they are close to you, or who wish to be close to you" he continued, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "But the main things we have discussed which have led to the progression and development of that relationship, were issues in your life which caused you pain. Which caused you to react, and to change, out of both necessity and fear. I will always be here to talk to you about absolutely anything that you wish to tell me, and I will listen with as open a mind and willing a heart as I am able to" he continued, watching her with a warm intensity as he spoke. "For tonight, thought, Watson, I was hoping that we would be able to change our usual routine when having dinner together."

"Oh?" she asked, her voice low yet warm.

"Instead of talking about cases, or deduction, or your training" he began, clasping his hands together and allowing them to rest upon the table. "I was hoping that we could talk about you."

"I had a very similar hope for tonight myself" Joan countered, lifting her eyes to meet Sherlock's, which were watching her with kindness and encouragement. "I was hoping that we could talk about each other." Sherlock watched her for a few moments, before nodding in agreement, and leaning back slightly in his seat.

"Where would you like to begin, Watson?" he asked, his voice gentle and soothing. Joan glanced to the side for a moment as she thought, her mind racing, considering questions she had always formed in her own mind, but so quickly dispelled. It was often the questions regarding things which seemed to be of no importance, or little relevance, that she often discarded. And yet, right now, both she and Sherlock knew that it was precisely those questions that had a much higher level of significance, and would help them to develop their relationship further, and break down the barriers which remained between them.

"Would you tell me about your tattoos?" Sherlock smiled slightly, before pushing his coffee cup to one side, unbuttoning his cuff, and revealing his bare forearm to her.

"Of course" he began, watching as her eyes became fixed upon his exposed limb. "And afterwards, would you tell me about yours?" Joan's eyes rose immediately, and she found herself staring at him in awe, before returning her gaze to his arm. She didn't know why she was still surprised at the extent of his knowledge.

"Of course" she returned, before placing her fingers upon his arm. "When did you get this one?"


	23. Chapter 23

Joan and Sherlock spent over an hour talking to each other at the restaurant, asking each other the kind of questions which they had never asked before. With most relationships, the kind of questions regarding tattoos, childhood and various preferences typically occur at the beginning, and would lead up to more personal, difficult and intimate issues. However, the opposite was the case with Sherlock and Joan, whose relationship was built upon the foundations of personal struggle, addiction and self-condemnation. They began their relationship out of necessity, and found each other's secrets and weaknesses revealed within days of first knowing each other. This had developed over two and a half years, with those secrets being further explored and dealt with, until the relationship between Sherlock and Joan became romantic. And now, sat across a small, well-lit table, in a room filled with beautiful artwork, stunning flowers and entrancing music, the consulting detectives asked questions that they had never dared to pose, and received answers they never expected to hear.

"It's eight-thirty already" Joan stated, as she checked the time on her cell phone. "I can't believe we have been talking for so long." Sherlock stared at her appreciatively, nodding his head a couple of times, before becoming fidgety and slightly agitated. "Sherlock?" Joan asked in a concerned tone, as she placed her glass of water upon the table. "What is it?" Sherlock did not respond immediately. Instead, he continued to watch her with a kind, sombre expression, before clasping his hands together in his lap, and tilting his head up to face her.

"I confess, Watson, I have something else planned for tonight" he began tentatively, tapping his thumbs upon his hands as he spoke. "You may recall that I mentioned a surprise earlier. Now, I do not wish to rush you, but we will need to leave shortly if we are to make it on time."

"Make it to what?" Joan asked gently, curiosity present in her tone.

"For a remarkably intelligent woman you seem completely unable to grasp the concept of a 'surprise'" Sherlock stated sarcastically, raising his glass to his lips as he took a sip. Joan suppressed a small smile, before brushing some hair behind her ear, and placing her clasped hands upon the table.

"Fine" she stated simply, realising that he would not reveal any more information to her. "What time do we need to leave?"

"I have arranged for the car to pick us up at 8.45, in order for us to-"

"-car?" Joan interjected. "What car?" Sherlock paused for a moment, his wide and alert eyes fixing themselves upon her own, as he considered his next words carefully.

"I took the liberty of hiring a car to drive us to the destination" he began, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. "It seemed appropriate. You'll understand when we get there."

"Right" she whispered, taking a small sip of her drink. "Okay, sure. I'm pretty much done anyway, so..."

"Excellent" Sherlock responded, becoming more animated.

"How would you like to spend the next fifteen minutes?" Joan asked, dabbing the side of her mouth with her napkin. Sherlock watched this elegant motion for a moment, and found his attention fixed on her lips. He blinked a couple of times, before allowing his eyes to move up her face, and focus on her own. Sherlock then got up from the table, pushed his chair back, and began to walk towards the bar. Joan's eyes narrowed with confusion, as she stared after the tall figure of her partner, who was talking across the bar to the manager. Her attention was soon transferred from Sherlock and to the kindly looking elderly gentleman who managed and owned the restaurant. He was watching Sherlock with intent, nodding enthusiastically to his words, and smiling broadly. He then smiled one final time, wiped his hands upon his apron, and beckoned Sherlock forward. Joan watched the scene with interest, folding her napkin neatly and placing it on the table, before feeling the presence of her partner slightly in front of her. Joan released her hands on the napkin, and looked up towards him. Sherlock was standing tall, his arms pressed to his sides, as he stood expectantly before her. Joan watched him expectantly, and was surprised when, instead of speaking, he reached out his hand to her. She took it automatically, and allowed him to ease her from her seat, and lead her towards the bar. Sherlock and Joan walked past several tables filled with well-dressed diners, all too engrossed in their dinner and conversations to notice the consulting detectives moving swiftly across the room. As Sherlock reached the bar, he was greeted by the manager who Watson had seen him talking to just moments before.

"Hello, miss" he greeted her pleasantly, bowing politely. "Thank you for coming this evening."

"Oh, thank you" Joan replied graciously. "It's a wonderful restaurant, and the food was delicious."

"Thank you" he smiled, nodding once more, before turning to face Sherlock. The manager then flipped a small catch on his side of the bar, before opening the door built into the bar, and permitting Sherlock and Joan through. Joan looked up at the manager for a moment, who smiled at her warmly. She could feel Sherlock's hand gently squeeze her hand reassuringly, and she nodded in response, before leading him through the gap and into the bar.

The manager stood before her, and led the couple across the bar, and through a door towards the back. The door swung open, revealing a set of steps, leading down to the basement. Joan waited a few moments to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness, before allowing Sherlock to lead her down the steep steps.

"What is it with you, stairs and deep, dark places?" she asked in a barely audible voice.

"They are the most underrated places, Watson" Sherlock stated, as he assisted her down from the final step. "I think we can both vouch for the importance of searching beneath the surface." Joan smiled slightly into the darkness, before nodding in agreement. Although she could not see it, Sherlock smiled too.

"You aren't wrong, sir" came the voice of the manager, whose figure had disappeared into the depths of the basement.

Joan stood closer to Sherlock, in an attempt to share his body heat. The basement was cold, and there was a notable chill in the air. Joan placed her free arm across her chest, and temporarily mourned the fact that her jacket was upstairs. Before she could pose another question, the pinging of a light, and the flickering of several bulbs overhead, permeated the silence, and lit up the room. Joan squinted slightly as her eyes adjusted to the new brightness within the room, which was revealed to be much bigger than she had originally anticipated. The room had a dark stone floor, high ceiling and light-mustard-coloured walls. The walls themselves were almost completely obscured by tall pieces of furniture, which proudly displayed several hundred bottles of rare and expensive-looking wine and champagne. Joan allowed herself to glance cursively across the room, before turning to face Sherlock with an expression of perplexity and wariness.

"Sherlock, have you brought me down here to show me alcohol?" she asked, a slight note of incredulity present in her tone.

"Yes, Watson" he answered simply, nodding several times as his wide eyes glances lazily around the room. "And, with you being a former sober companion, and myself an addict, the irony of this situation is not entirely lost on me, I assure you" he continued, before taking a step in front of her, and guiding her towards the wall to the left. "However..."

Joan followed him willingly, curious to know what she was about to be shown, and why she had been brought down into the basement. As she found herself lost in these thoughts, she felt her hand become cold and weak suddenly, as Sherlock reluctantly removed his hand from her own, and proceeded to run his fingers along the necks of the bottles of champagne which lined the walls.

"Sherlock" Joan stated in a notably reproving manner, as her partner lifted one bottle from the display, and continued to search amongst the others. "Sherlock, what are you-"

"Ah-ha!" he proclaimed victoriously, as he plucked another bottle from its place. Sherlock blew the dust from the bottom of the bottle, before holding the two large, expensive-looking bottles side by side, and nodding at them approvingly. He then rose his head to face Joan, before walking quickly towards her, and holding the bottles in front of him like a proud child with an excellent report card.

"What's this?" she asked, as he turned the bottles over in his hands and held them up to her, so she could see the front. She stared at the expensive champagne for several minutes, marvelling at the intricacies of the design, and the beauty of the gold-embellished label. Her curious eyes scanned the bottles for several moments, before becoming fixed upon the information which Sherlock had first noticed. Despite her concerns, she could not help but smile. "The dates" she whispered, reaching out and running her fingertips lightly across the dates written on the bottom of the labels.

"Yes, Watson" Sherlock responded gently. "The bottle on the left was sealed in the month and year of your birth, and the bottle on the right was sealed in mine."

Joan stared at the two bottles for a few moments, before taking a tentative step forwards, and taking the one on the right from Sherlock. She held it in her hands, turning it around and examining it closely, before holding it by the neck.

"And what exactly do you plan on doing with these?" she asked slowly, an edge of light warning present in her tone.

"I assure you, Watson, I have absolutely no intention of drinking these vintage champagnes. To break the seal on such a magnificent brand would surely be a travesty" he stated simply, speaking in his usual fast and animated manner. "You see, Watson, these two bottles are not only ones made in the months and years of our births, but they are the _first_ made in those months and years. And, as for the others-"

"I have been serving them to the other guests all night long" the manager interjected. "A very special wine, Miss Watson, to have been made when someone such as yourself graced the earth. I wanted my guests to sample a fine drink from a time which was clearly revolutionary."

"And quite perfect" Sherlock continued "and, clearly, becoming more improved and more satisfied with age", causing Joan's attention to shift from the manager to Sherlock's.

"So you're saying that the champagne that people have been having all evening is from the date and year of our births?" Joan asked, touched by the sentiment.

"Quite" Sherlock responded, nodding a couple of times, before handing the bottle he was holding to the manager.

"Would you like to have that one, Miss Watson?" the manager asked, indicating the bottle in her hand. She shot a cursory look up at Sherlock, who flushed slightly, before passing the bottle back to the manager. "Would you... would you keep it here for me? Somewhere safe?" she asked kindly.

"But of course!" he responded, his features lighting up, as he relieved her of the bottle, and took both of the bottles to the back of the room.

"Sherlock" Joan began, speaking in a gentle tone which quickly attracted the attention of the consulting detective. "This was an incredibly kind gesture, really. And I am so very, very grateful" she continued, watching as his curious eyes became fixed upon her own.

"But you are concerned that such a gesture involved being presented with alcohol by an addict?" he added, his voice low yet candid.

"Yes" she replied simply, her voice tentative and gentle. Sherlock smiled lightly in response.

"Because, Watson, it is thanks to you that I am able to stand in this room, as I do now, surrounded by alcohol, and without the slightest interest or intention of drinking it" he stated simple, speaking in a slow manner to ensure that she understood what he was saying. "In fact, the only thing that provides me with temptation within this room" he stated, taking a few steps forwards as their eyes met, "is standing right before me". Joan watched him curiously for a moment or two, before taking a single step forwards, pressing her body against his, and kissing him gently upon the lips. Sherlock reacted instantly to this gesture, returning her kiss in the same manner, as he cupped the side of her face, before running his fingers down her cheek. "It's all because of you, Watson" he breathed huskily into her ear, before taking a step back. "My being here, now, in this room, is thanks to you. And I don't simply mean my being in a room filled with expensive alcohol. I mean here, now" he stated simply, glancing briefly around the room, before fixing his eyes upon hers. "I would not be here right now, if it were not thanks to you."

"Nor would I" she replied instantly, in a low and gentle tone. Sherlock watched her with interest following her response, but before she could expand upon it, the manager trotted merrily over to the partners, his face a broad smile.

"Your champagne bottles will be stored in the safe, with my finest and most expensive wines" he stated, clasping his hands together before him. "Is there anything else you wish to view down here?"

"Watson?" Sherlock asked chivalrously, to which Joan replied with a gentle shaking of her head.

"Thank you, but I think we have taken up enough of your time. I'm sure you would like to get back to your guests."

"Also, Watson" Sherlock began, glancing at his watch. "It is time, if you are quite ready, for us to depart." Joan nodded in response, as she realised that it must be almost quarter-to-nine. With all the activity downstairs, she had almost forgotten about her surprise.

"Sure" she responded, before turning to walk from the room. She took a few steps towards the door, before pausing, turning on the spot, and standing opposite Sherlock, who was watching her with mild confusion. "Thank you, Sherlock" she stated in a kind and genuine manner, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it gently, before leading him from the room. Sherlock did not respond vocally, he simply nodded, before squeezing her hand gently in response, and walking with her up the steps.

Sherlock and Joan headed back to their table and gathered their things, pulling on their coats and generously tipping the kindly waitress who had been so attentive that evening. Joan then released her hair from her jacket, picked up her clutch bag, and followed Sherlock from the restaurant, waving to the manager as they left. As Joan walked through the door which Sherlock was holding open for her, she could not help but reflect on how perfect the evening was, and how kind and attentive Sherlock had been. He had spoken to her kindly and candidly, answering all of her questions and responding appropriately, as well as posing ones to her which did not make her feel uncomfortable or put on the spot. He had been incredibly attentive that evening, assuring that she had everything she needed, and doing whatever he could to ensure her comfort. As she walked with him down the stone steps, and towards a sleek, black car with tinted windows which was awaiting them, she reflected on how he had been the perfect gentleman. And as Sherlock took a few quick steps in front of her, before holding open the back door for her, she realised that she had not doubted this for a minute. As she arrived at the door, she paused for a moment, offering him a kind, warm smile which conveyed her gratitude and sincere contentment.

"Thank you, Watson" Sherlock responded, as his eyes met hers in the darkness of the street. She nodded slightly, as she felt a strong draw towards him, a familiar urge which she had been attempting to suppress. She nodded slightly, before easing herself into her seat. She was reflecting on her physical response to Sherlock as she clicked her seatbelt into place. Her thoughts were only interrupted by the gentle closing of the door, and the feeling of Sherlock Holmes sitting next to her in the back. The seats were leather and cool, providing a welcome comfort from the slightly humid evening. She leaned back into the material, resting her hands in her lap, as the car cruised quietly towards the unknown destination.

The car drove through the dark city streets for about ten minutes, with the sounds of activity outside permeating the silence. Sherlock and Joan were sitting reflectively in the back of the car, occasionally exchanging a few words with each other, but generally being quite pensive, thinking over the events of the evening so far as their bodies were pressed comfortingly against each other. After a few minutes more, the car pulled up outside a bustling building, drawing Joan's attention from her partner to her window.

"The theatre?" she breathed. "You brought me to the theatre?" she repeated, her face alight as she turned to face Sherlock, who was surveying her nervously.

"I bought you to the opera, Watson" he stated, watching as her eyes widened slightly, and she began to smile. "I seem to remember you inviting me to it on the first evening of our partnership. However, I-"

"-insulted me, declined the invitation, but later gatecrashed it" Joan stated in a light-humoured manner, turning from the window to him as she spoke. "Yeah, I remember."

"So I... I wished to make it up to you. And, as you seem to enjoy the opera, I hoped you would enjoy this one." Sherlock continued, his tone still attempting to conceal a slight degree of nervousness. "It seemed appropriate."

"It is, and I will. Thank you" Joan returned soothingly. "What your father said to me back then was true, wasn't it?" she asked tentatively. "That you enjoy the opera?"

"I do" he returned, leaning back in his seat as his hands were clasped in his lap. "Although, I confess, I have not been to see this particular opera before, despite its fame and popularity."

"Which is it?" Joan asked with interest. 

"La Traviata" he returned instantly, causing her eyes to soften and a small smile to play at her lips. "Again, it seemed appropriate."

"It's beautiful" she stated simply. "You're right, that does seem appropriate" she continued soothingly, as Sherlock seemed to relax slightly at her approval. "You know, I haven't seen this since I was in college" she stated in a low and reflective tone. "It may have even been the first opera I ever saw."

"Well, if you are happy to, you shall see it again tonight, Watson" Sherlock stated, his voice pleasant and conversational. Joan nodded in response, which Sherlock returned, before the latter got out of the car, walked around it, and held Joan's door open for her. Joan thanked the driven, whose face and profile were almost completely obscured, before accepting Sherlock's hand, and easing herself out of the comforting leather seat. The theatre was brightly lit and extremely busy, with long queues of eagerly-waiting and well-dressed individuals brandishing their tickets.

"These queues are insane" Joan stated as they slowly made their way towards their steps.

"Yes, they do look quite tiresome" Sherlock stated, before turning to her and offering her his hand, which she accepted. "It is fortunate that we will not be required to join them."

"What?" Joan asked, narrowing her eyes in confusion, as Sherlock led her past the queues and towards a door to the left of the theatre, which was guarded by two tall, muscular men in dark suits. Sherlock reached into his pocket, passed them something which they glanced at briefly, before returning the items and opening the door behind them, standing aside to allow the partners to pass through. Sherlock thanked them, before leading Joan through the dimly lit corridor and towards a staircase. "Sherlock, what's going on?" she asked curiously, tugging gently on his hand to attract his attention.

"I have reserved us a VIP box for tonight's opera, Watson" he stated amiable. "And the kind gentleman at the front have permitted us to reach our seats this way. It is the most direct route, I assure you."

"Okay" she conceded warily, as she followed him up the staircase, which was fitted with a thick and expensive-looking red carpet.

Joan held onto Sherlock's hand tightly as he led her up the steps and into the theatre itself, which was tall and grand, with red carpets and oak panelling. It was exactly as Joan remembered it. At the present moment, people were beginning to file in to their seats, and light conversational tones were beginning to permeate the silence. Sherlock and Joan stood motionless for a few moments, surveying the room, and appreciating how grand and how beautiful it was, before turning and walking up another set of stairs, and into the VIP box which Sherlock had reserved for them. The box was beautiful, of the same design as the rest of the building, yet with a seemingly more modern and comfortable edge. Their seat was ornately designed and intrinsically decorated, with cushioned seats and a small table, which held two glasses and a small non-alcoholic drink selection. Programmes for the opera lay beside the glasses, as did two pairs of opera glasses, and a box of expensive French chocolates.

"Are you alright, Watson?" Sherlock called to her gently, as found herself completely enraptured in the sight before her. "Watson?" he called again, taking a step in front of her.

"You did all of this?" she asked breathlessly, glancing across the box.

"Well, not personally" he began, confused and slightly concerned. "I knew some of your favourite drinks, and asked for the staff to place a selection up here for tonight" he continued gently. "Is something wrong?"

"No" she returned immediately, her voice clear and absolute. "Nothing is wrong" she continued, before adjusting her grip on his hand. "I just... you've gone to so much trouble..."

"Watson" he interrupted, taking a step closer to her. "I assure you, it was no trouble. I wanted to create an evening that you would enjoy, that you would be able to feel relaxed and comfortable in. I did not wish for you to worry about a thing."

"This evening has been perfect, Sherlock. It has been absolutely wonderful. It's been so personal and so thoughtful, and I am really, really grateful" she stated kindly, as she considered how to phrase her next statement. "I just... I want you to know that..." she paused briefly, before lifting her head to face Sherlock, and continuing. "I'm not one of those people who expects expensive gifts and gestures. I don't... I love absolutely everything about this evening, but... but I..." she faltered once more, but recovered quickly. "I don't want you to feel used, Sherlock. I want you to know that our relationship has absolutely nothing to do with money or connections. I just want to be with you." Sherlock was silent for a few moments, and Joan was worried that she had offended him. Her intention had not been to offend him. She had not experienced a more considerate gentleman, or spent such a wonderful night with someone before. But she was concerned about Sherlock, and did not wish to take advantage of his clear desire to please her.

"I assure you, Watson, I do not feel used. We have been out together on several more low-key dates, which have been arranged by both you and I" he stated, gesturing to her as he spoke, causing her to nod in agreement. "I know that you are not one to expect expensive gifts or gestures, and you are certainly not one who is accustomed to receiving them. Those are the two main reasons I wished to give you an evening such as this one" Sherlock was speaking kindly and gently, alleviating Joan's concerns that she had caused him offence. He seemed more concerned about her than about his own feelings. "Money matters very little to me, Watson, as we have discussed before. But if I can use a small portion of my modest funds to create an evening which we can enjoy, and which removes us so completely from everything else that we are dealing with at the moment, then I would leap at the opportunity." He paused once more, and Joan nodded in understanding. Before she could form a response, Sherlock continued to speak. "I apologise if I have made you feel uncomfortable this evening-"

"No" Joan stated immediately, in a reassuring manner. "You haven't, not at all. It's just that... that this is so new to us both, and I want you to know that I want to be with you, because of you. Because of who you are as a person, and not because of your bank balance of family connections."

"I quite understand" he responded gently, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "I assure you, Watson, that particular thought never once crossed my mind. You are not that type of person, and I know that" he stated gently, before taking one step closer to her. "And I want to be with you, too, because of you." Joan smiled in relief at his comment, and stared up into his bright, alert eyes, as the lights above them began to dim, signalling the beginning of the show. Sherlock and Joan's eyes rose for a moment, before meeting once more, as he leaned down slightly, and kissed her on her lips. Joan felt her whole body tingle with anticipation, as she leant into his body and held him to her, deepening the kiss as they found themselves surrounded by darkness. "It's starting, Watson" he breathed in the darkness, as she felt the warmth of his breath upon her neck. "Are you happy to stay?"

"Yes" she breathed in response, as he led her to their seats. The lights rose for a few moments, providing a dim light in their box, which lit up their faces, as well as the table before them. Joan leaned back in the seat, before shrugging off her coat and laying it across the back of the seat, which Sherlock did too.

"Would you like something to drink, Watson?" Sherlock asked kindly.

"I'm fine, thank you" she stated, as she perched herself on the edge of the seat, and stared at the crowd below. She was thinking over her conversation with Sherlock, and was beginning to regret having initiating it. She felt that she had done him a disservice to presume that he would, even for a moment, believe her to be interested in him for monetary reasons. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, criticising herself inwardly, before opening them to find that Sherlock was watching her with concern. Her eyes met his, and he did not speak or respond to her mild discomfort immediately. Instead, his bright and intelligent eyes scanned her briefly, as he too considered their previous conversation, and correctly deduced the reason for her current discomfort. Sherlock placed his phone on the table, before edging across the seat until their legs were touching. Joan felt warmed and reassured by the contact, and smiled lightly before lifting her head to face him. She found him looking upon her with a kind and sympathetic expression, which she was grateful for. He then rose his left arm, and wrapped it comfortingly across her shoulders, holding her to him. Joan was immensely grateful for this contact, which provided her with an indescribable feeling of relief and adoration. She leaned in to him, resting her head by his shoulder, as the curtains rose and the opera began.

Sherlock and Joan spent the entire opera sitting in this position, with Sherlock's arm wrapped protectively and reassuringly across Joan's back, causing her to lean into his touch, and find herself feeling almost invincible. Sherlock and Joan whispered a few comments to each other, laughed on a couple of occasions, and enjoyed the company of the other for the entire evening. At some points of the opera, Joan found her eyes welling up with tears, as she bit her lip to stifle a sob which she did not wish her partner to find out about. He knew, of course, and passed her a handkerchief each time. Every time. By the end of the opera, the sound of appreciative applause and whispers of contentment resonated throughout the entire theatre, and Sherlock and Joan rose to their feet to join it, basking in the ambience. As they clapped, Sherlock turned to Joan, who was smiling brightly at the sight before her. At that moment, Joan also turned towards him, and their eyes met in the new lightness of their private booth. Her smile softened, and her eyes were sparkling and alight. Sherlock watched her with interest for a few moments, relieved to see that she was enjoying herself, and appeared to be so free from all of the worries, concerns and burdens which she bore alone. He hoped she would continue to experience such happiness and contentment, and that, when the concerns and burdens did arise, she would know that she was not alone, and would allow him to shoulder some of them too.

"Thank you" she stated, her eyes still glistening slightly with tears. "It was wonderful, Sherlock. Tonight has been incredible. Really. I don't know how I can thank you."

"You have" he returned instantly, as he picked up her coat and began to assist her with it. "But you do not owe me anything, Watson. Let me make quite certain that you know that." She nodded slowly in response, before doing up the buttons of her jacket and picking up her clutch bag. Sherlock pulled on his own coat, before offering Joan his hand, and leading her from the emptying theatre. As they exited the bustling theatre, Sherlock and Joan found themselves standing on the pavement amongst the other groups and couples, who were discussing the opera, calling taxis and getting into waiting cars. At this moment, they were both struck by how comfortable they felt, and how feelings of being out of place or awkward did not affect them at all. In fact, neither of them had ever felt so natural.

"It's almost midnight" Joan stated as she glanced at her phone.

"Are you worried about turning into a pumpkin, Watson?" Sherlock asked in a sarcastic manner, causing her to smile slightly, and lean closer into his side, as their clasped hands remained between them.

"Cinderella did not turn into a pumpkin, her carriage did" Joan corrected him, causing Sherlock to mouth 'ah' before widening his eyes and nodding in agreement. "Speaking of carriages..." she began, glancing across the sea of vehicles before her.

"I asked the driver to come when I called, as I was uncertain of when the opera would conclude" Sherlock explained, speaking in a low and gentle tone. "Now, I was going to take you to the airport to board a private jet to the Bahamas" he began in a light and sarcastic manner, "but seeing as you-"

"Okay, okay" Joan smiled, laughing lightly as she spoke.

"Is there anything you would like to do before we head home?" he asked kindly, as she glanced tiredly across the street. "My dear Watson, you're exhausted" he stated, raising his free hand to hold her cheek.

"I'm fine" she returned dismissively, offering him a small, tired smile.

"Would you like to be fine, at home?" Sherlock asked, punctuating the last words as he spoke. She smiled once more, before turning from him and nodding slightly.

"Would you mind?" she asked, looking back up at him. Sherlock removed his hand from hers, and placed it in the centre of her back, causing her to lean into him as he extracted his phone from his pocket.

"Not at all, Watson" he stated, planting a kiss on her forehead as he held the phone to his ear. "Not at all."


	24. Chapter 24

The next six weeks were a complex and contradictory period for the consulting detectives. Whilst their relationship continued to develop at a slow and manageable pace, which made the situation feel natural and comfortable for them both, the case that was occupying the majority of their time had reached a temporary standstill. Despite the strength of Joan's evidence, and of her character, her testimony alone was not enough to convince the ADA to prosecute, let alone secure a conviction. The month and a half since Maria Lennard's arrest was a time of professional frustration and stagnation, with very little evidence being obtained which could be used in a case against the woman the police knew to be guilty. Her alibis were by no means solid, but could not be denied. Her character was an enigma, with each person who knew her giving a different account of exactly who she was. One of the only strengths possessed by the police and the consulting detectives was their knowledge of the strength of Joan's evidence, which also revealed the motive to the young woman's crimes.

Despite this, Maria continued to deny her involvement in all of the offences of which she was accused. After a few days, as the police were unable to charge her with the murders of the slain women, they charged her with the assault on Joan Watson, a charge which stuck. Due to the uncertainty of her living arrangements, and the risk she was believed to pose to herself and others, she was denied bail, and sent to prison until her trial. During the six weeks which passed from her first court appearance to the present time, she did not utter a single word in relation to any of the offences of which she was accused of having committed. Her silence and the lack of solid evidence against her was hindered further by the fact that Greta Mathers had remained comatose since her attack, and doctors were uncertain of whether she would ever regain consciousness, meaning that the only witness who could corroborate Joan's evidence may never be in a position to do so.

These concerns were playing on Joan's mind one cold winter morning six weeks after her attack. She found herself sitting upright in bed, awoken by some unknown dream or memory which had interrupted her otherwise peaceful slumber. As she adjusted her shirt and turned to observe the time, which was a few minutes past seven in the morning, she placed one hand on her head and sighed tiredly. Joan felt exhausted, and her whole body was aching and sore. Although she had only slept for hours, Joan woke up feeling as though she had not even blinked in the last twenty-four hours, and she longed for more sleep. However, at the moment, sleep was a luxury which she could not afford. The pressure of the case was building, and having a negative affect on all those involved. There was a notable atmosphere built upon frustration which defined the precinct, and the officers and officials were becoming agitated, snappy and eager for results. Even Detective Bell was becoming snappy with other officers, as well as the consulting detectives. He apologised immediately, of course, and the event was not taken to heart. But it did represent just how difficult the current case was becoming, and the potential it had to negatively affect them all. Joan sighed tiredly at this thought, before allowing herself to consider how the case was currently affected Sherlock.

Over the past couple of weeks, he had been working longer into the night, spending increased amounts of time in the rooms on the ground floor. Although Joan was used to her partner working strange hours, playing music in the early hours, practising his single-stick in the kitchen, or baking into the early hours, he seemed to be more preoccupied with this case than anything she had witnessed before; with the exception of the incidences involving Moriarty. He always became personally connected with the cases they worked on, viewing a failure to uncover the evidence or unravel the case as being symptomatic of his own weakness or inabilities, so his increased work on this case did not surprise or concern her to any great degree. In the past few weeks, they had worked together on it for large parts of the day, sitting side by side as they ran through files, interviewed witnesses, watched CCTV footage, and delved deep into the life of the murderess whose incarceration seemed uncertain. Due to this, their romantic dates had not been as frequent as often, or as long, but always as meaningful.

On one occasion Sherlock, realising that he had spent three full days working on the case, barely exchanging a word or even a look with Joan, began to experience feelings of guilt which he found both confusing and painful. He had immediately leapt up from his position on the floor, bought her pastries and coffee from her favourite patisserie, and presented it to her in bed one morning, much to her surprise. His guilt was only deepened when her first words to him had been asking whether he was alright. He simply nodded in response, perched himself meekly on the side of her bed, and apologised for any offence or hardship he had caused her. She assured him that no such apology was required, but urged him to discuss things with her or someone else, instead of locking himself away in complete and utter solitude. They then spent the next two hours talking, eating, laughing and, eventually, kissing. They had been discussing their night at the opera, amongst other things, when they found themselves wrapped in each other's arms, and kissing passionately, amongst the crumpled sheets and abandoned pastries. Their passionate yet innocent encounter became heated very quickly, with Joan pulling Sherlock on top of her, becoming acutely aware of her need to be close to him, and by his need for her. The covers had been quickly discarded, as had the pastries, and Joan had begun tugging on Sherlock's shirt, before he took her hands in his, pushed them gently aside, and reminded her of her desire for them to take things slowly. She protested for a moment, but was quickly placated by her partner, whose soothing words of reassurance and conviction reminded her of the very reasons for her wishing for their relationship to develop slowly. She assented, and they spent a further hour talking, before heading to the precinct and working on the case.

But now, six weeks after the arrest of Maria Lennard, Joan found herself longing for little more than to fall back into the comfort of her pillows, and embrace sleep. But the bright lights of her alarm, and the gentle noises of the traffic outside her window, made her realise that rest would have to wait: a new day had broken, and there was much to do. Regretfully, Joan eased herself out of bed, walked slowly to the bathroom, and prepared herself for the day. As she stood beneath the water, which washed over her tired and aching body, she found herself feeling quite unsteady, and braced herself on the wall as the water cascaded over her. She closed her eyes and lowered her head, taking in a few deep breaths, and willing the feeling to pass. When she opened her eyes a few seconds later, she felt more steady and alert, and stood perfectly still beneath the flowing water for a few seconds, before leaving the shower. She spent a further fifteen minutes getting ready, during which time her aching and unsteadiness had completely abated, and she felt a sudden rush of energy, which put a noticeable spring in her step as she descended the staircase and made her way to the kitchen, when she knew her partner had been working.

As she walked through the living area and approached the doorway to the kitchen, the overpowering scent of black coffee swam in the air, and almost took Joan's breath away.

"That's some strong coffee" she stated as she passed the threshold, making her way slowly over to Sherlock, who was standing by the oven, pouring boiling water into two mugs. At the sound of her voice, he placed the kettle back on the hob, before turning to his side to face her. "How much of that stuff have you made?" She continued, her senses overtaken by the heavy scent of coffee in the kitchen, which reminded her of a coffee-shop at eight-thirty, just as everyone was ordering their drinks before heading to work. Before she could consider the strength of the scent further, Sherlock gave her a confused look, before picking up one of the steaming hot mugs and walking towards her with it, his curious eyes darting across her face as he did so.

"These are the only cups I have made this morning, Watson" he answered in a low and curious tone, as he passed her the mug. "What do you-" Sherlock's question was interrupted by the ringing of his phone in his breast pocket, which he quickly extracted, turning from Joan as he answered it, and making his way over to the kettle as he addressed the person on the other end.

Joan clasped the coffee tightly in her hands, and watched Sherlock as he walked confidently across the room, and began adding milk to his drink. Joan remained completely still for several moments, lost in her thoughts as she observed Sherlock, until the overpowering scent of coffee once more filled the air, bringing her out of her reverie. She glanced down at the offending mug, and turned sharply on the spot, before walking towards the table. However, as soon as she took her first step, she wavered slightly, finding herself overtaken by the same feeling of unsteadiness and dizziness which she had experienced earlier. She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, before walking quickly over to the table and easing herself into a chair, sighing in relief as she sat down. She placed the mug on the table, pushing it to the other side, before pulling her chair in and pressing her hands against the edge of the table, bracing herself as she closed her eyes and tried to overcome this latest dizzy spell. Joan's mouth felt dry, and she found her whole body feeling both unsteady and slightly shaky, despite the fact that she was comfortably seated. She opened her eyes and removed her slightly trembling hands from the edge of the table, before leaning back in her seat. She had never felt this way before, so tired and so weak. But given the amount of hours she and Sherlock had been putting into this latest case, she was not surprised that she was exhausted. She had not been eating as well or as regularly as usual, either, which was certain to be a contributing factor to her current state. And yet, when she was a doctor, she had also worked long hours, often without sleep or food. So why was she feeling so unwell now?

"Watson?" came a nearby voice, drawing her from her thoughts.

"Yes" she answered, turning her head towards him, and offering him a small smile.

"Are you quite alright?" he asked, placing his phone in his pocket as he walked towards her. "You look rather pale-"

"Yeah, I'm tired. I was working on some of the witness statements last night, analysing the language and its implications, until the early hours. I'm fine" she stated, her voice sounding more confident than she felt.

"I did not see you eat yesterday, Watson" Sherlock returned, before heading back towards the stove and removing a plate from the oven, placing it in front of her. "So I made you those waffles you are so keen on. Please, take your time with breakfast, and then we will head to the precinct."

"Thanks" she replied, drawing the plate closer to her. "I thought we were working from home today" she stated absent-mindedly, before picking up one of the waffles and taking a grateful bite. The food was warm and comforting, and she could feel her body radiate with gratitude as she ate.

"We were, Watson. We were" Sherlock began, watching with relief as Joan began to eat her breakfast. He had noticed that she had been neglecting her rest and food requirements as of late, and had woken up especially early to ensure that she ate a filling breakfast after resting. "That is, until Mrs Mathers came out of her coma."

Joan stopped chewing for a moment, and her wide and alert eyes met Sherlock's own, as he placed his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels, before addressing her unvoiced question.

"The call I just received was from Captain Gregson" he stated simply, watching as Joan's hand hovered slightly above her plate. "Mrs Mathers regained consciousness half an hour ago, and is amenable to making a police statement. We will discuss the matter and the approach at the precinct. We are unable to interview her at the present time, as she is still being evaluated by doctors. Apparently, she is rather eager to speak with us, although the Captain did not sound particularly enthusiastic."

"You don't think she can help us?" Joan asked, after eating one of the three waffles on her plate.

"I don't think she _will_ help us" Sherlock returned, throwing his head to the side in marked irritation, before sighing heavily. Joan smiled at his reaction, which reminded her of a chastised school child.

"Maybe not intentionally" she continued, picking up the second waffle, and eating it hungrily. "But she's bound to reveal something, no matter how careful she is. And, after her six-week coma, her ability to lie or to conceal the truth will be compromised. She'll be exhausted, emotionally, mentally and physically. She won't have the energy or the capacity to be too dishonest." Sherlock nodded slowly in agreement, turning back to Joan as she finished her second waffle, and made an attempt upon the third, which was not as successful.

"You could be right, Watson" he began, turning to face his partner directly. "But her capacity to lie has been fairly strong in the past, so I, like the Captain, do not feel overly joyous." Joan placed the half-eaten waffle upon the plate, before brushing a crumb from the side of her mouth, and beginning to speak.

"A woman who was attacked, twice, and almost killed both times, has just regained consciousness after being in a comatose state for a month and a half" she stated in a low yet kind tone. "Regardless of the case, of Maria Lennard, regardless of anything" Joan continued, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. "This is something to feel joy about." Sherlock watched her with in impassive expression for several moments, before nodding once, and adopting a slightly sheepish expression. Not due to guilt at what he had said, but of how it had made Joan feel. Lately, he had expressed similar concerns about how his actions and words would affect her, and was trying to make it up to her, often with food.

"It isn't necessary, you know" Joan stated kindly, which instantly drew Sherlock's attention towards her. "I mean, it is important to be aware of how what you say affects other people, but in here, between us, the rules always seem so...fluid" she stated, narrowing her eyes for a moment as she considered her next words carefully. "I don't want you to change, or feel that you have to change, because of me, or because of how I feel, Sherlock. Any change you feel you need to make has to be because of you, for you." She paused a few moments, watching Sherlock's features carefully, but he was as unreadable as ever. "Besides, if you keep making me food every time you think you have upset me, you're gonna have to quit as a consulting detective and become a full-time chef, and all of my clothes are gonna need taking out." She smiled at this last statement, as she observed a glistening in Sherlock's eyes.

"Very well, Watson" he stated sombrely, before relieving her of her plate, and carrying it to the sink. "Please consider yourself free from the waffles."

"Not the waffles" she stated simply, rising from her chair as she spoke. "The waffles were amazing, Sherlock, thank you. I would gladly be offended by you if it meant you would occasionally make more."

"I am very glad to hear it" he returned, approaching her slowly and standing before her for a moment, before raising his hand and placing a freshly-cooked waffle to her lips. She bit into it, before plucking it completely from his hand, and nibbling around the edges. She was not really that hungry, but the waffles were so warm and so comforting, that she could not resist.

"Thanks" she began, turning the waffle over in her hand, before walking slowly into the living area. "But you didn't offend me" she stated, standing still, and turning her head back as she addressed him. Sherlock pulled his jacket over his shirt and made his way towards her.

"The day's still young" he returned brightly, walking past her as he spoke. She smiled lightly into the waffle, taking another small bite, before selecting a coat from the rack and heading outside.

Sherlock and Joan arrived at the precinct shortly before eleven o'clock in the morning, and were greeted outside the room of Mrs Mathers by Captain Gregson and Detective Bell, whose weary expressions revealed their wariness over the interview which was about to take place.

"Captain" Sherlock began, drumming his fingers against his leg as he spoke. "How is she?"

"Lucid" Gregson responded, placing one hand in his pocket and gesturing with the other as he spoke. "The doctors are impressed with her progress so far. She recognised her husband immediately, and answered some basic questions with no real problems. But the affect of the attack and coma on her memory is as yet unknown."

"That's to be expected" Joan returned in a low and gentle tone. "She may gain or lose memory over time, so it's important that we speak to her as soon as possible. Does she feel up to being interviewed?"

"Oh, she's insisting on it" interjected Bell, who took a step closer to Sherlock and Joan. "She wants to talk as soon as possible, and she's already tryin' to find out when she can be discharged."

"She'll be advised to stay here for a while yet" Joan returned. "Until then, what's the plan?"

"Before we interview her, we need to go over our strategy, review her file, and go over all the reports on all the evidence found in her apartment" Gregson began, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. "Now, I know it's tedious, but she lied before and she'll probably do it again. We need to be prepared, and we need to make sure she knows that we know the truth." Gregson spoke with conviction and authority that was hard to dispute, and the team willingly assented to his suggestions and his logic. They took up their familiar seats in the room which they all now considered to be an extension of themselves, and began to pour over the files. They discussed techniques, strategies and potential approaches, as well as the evidence, witness statements and corroborative data. After almost seven hours at the precinct, Gregson received the call he had been waiting for, which confirmed that Mrs Mathers was ready to be interviewed. As soon as he hung up, the team grabbed their coats and headed to the hospital.

Gregson indicated towards Sherlock and Joan with his free hand. "You ready?" They both nodded in assent, before heading towards the room of Greta Mathers, and cautiously stepping inside.

As Joan entered the room, she found herself experiencing a curious feeling of deja vu, as she found herself once again facing the sitting figure of Greta Mathers, who wore the same look of conviction and defiance that she had displayed on their first meeting. However, this time, there was one notable difference.

"Would you like us to get your husband for you, Mrs Mathers?" Joan asked kindly as she approached the woman.

"No, Miss Watson" she returned in a low and slightly croaky voice. "I sent him out for a short while, he will return when we are done." The coldness and hostility in her tone was almost palpable, and created a tense atmosphere within the small and already crowded room. "Can we please just get this over with?"

"Of course" Gregson began, placing his hands in his pockets as he addressed the weary woman in the bed. "Before we do, is there anything, or anyone, we can get for you?"

"No" she returned acidly, glaring at Gregson, then turning her attention to the other people in the room. "Please ask me what you need to ask, and then leave." Joan studied the face of Mrs Mathers for a few moments, and found herself confused by the situation. Greta had always been cold and hostile, but never this much, and certainly not in response to such innocent questions.

"Is something wrong, Mrs Mathers?" Joan asked tentatively, as she stood a respectable distance from the bed of the recovering woman before her.

"Apart from being attacked in my home for the second time, and almost being killed?" she returned immediately, staring coldly upon Joan as she spoke.

"Do you remember the attack?" Sherlock asked, watching the woman curiously as she began to respond.

"I remember being hit on the head, and then..." Greta squinted, and partially rose her hand in defeat as she spoke, before shaking her head slightly. "And then nothing."

"Do you remember anything about the person who attacked you?" Joan asked gently.

"No."

"Do you remember anything that happened after you returned home that night?" Joan continued.

"No."

"And you remember having any guests over?" she persisted.

"I had no guests." Greta returned immediately, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

"You said you couldn't remember anything after you returned home that day" Sherlock stated in a low yet respectful manner. "So, forgive me Mrs Mathers, but how can you be certain that you received no guests?"

"I received no guests, Mr Holmes" she returned in a lower tone, clasping her hands in her lap as she spoke. "I remember leaving hospital and being driven home by my husband, but everything else is... muddled."

"I understand" Sherlock returned kindly, causing Mrs Mathers' eyes to raise slightly, and examine his face with clear scepticism. "So you do not remember the phone call you had with Miss Watson during your attack?" Mrs Mathers swallowed slightly, and her eyes shifted from Sherlock's face to Joan's before resting upon Sherlock's once more.

"I don't remember making any phone call to Miss Watson" she returned.

"I didn't say that you _made_ the call, Mrs Mathers" Sherlock returned. "Only that you had a conversation on the phone with Miss Watson. Either one of you could have made the call, I did not specify" he continued, as Mrs Mathers' eyes rose once more to meet his. "But you did."

"As I've said, on multiple occasions" Greta Mathers began, unclasping her hands and gesturing for emphasis. "I have no recollection of the attack, or anything which happened just before it."

"And how is your memory of the past few months, Mrs Mathers?" Sherlock asked, his voice rising slightly with irritation. Joan watched him for a moment, and decided to interrupt if he were to step out of line. Although Greta was clearly concealing something, and possibly even lying about her recollection of her attack, she was still a victim, and did not deserve to be spoke to in such an offensive manner. "How is, say, your recollection of the past six months?"

"Fairly accurate, I should imagine" she returned, regaining some of her composition due to the relief of the change of subject. "Why?"

"So you recall some minor events in your life, as well as the major ones, correct?" Sherlock asked in an even tone, as he spoke quickly and with animation.

"Yes."

"So you recall having an affair?" There was a slight pause after this question, and the room was filled with an uncomfortable silence.

"Yes" she returned after a moment.

"Then you will, I presume, remember the identity of the person you had the affair with?" Greta's eyes widened slightly, and she watched Sherlock with a look of anger and warning.

"As we've already discussed, that subject is not up for discussion." She returned acidly.

"You will also remember, then, that the person you had the affair with was your former PA, Maria Lennard, who is also the person who attacked you on both occasions" Sherlock continued, speaking in a low tone, yet keeping his voice even and completely calm. Despite this, it was clear to Joan that Sherlock was becoming unsettled and increasingly annoyed by Mrs Mathers' reluctance to discuss several central issues relating to the case, and she found her concern for him growing.

Mrs Mathers did not respond at all to this remark, and simply remained sitting up in bed, staring at Sherlock with an expression which bordered between anger and disbelief.

"If you _had_ decided to discuss the identity of this person with us when we first asked you, you would avoided your second attack, as well as the one on Miss Watson" Sherlock continued, his voice adopting a certain edge, a tone which Joan did not recognise. It was not something which was familiar to her, or that she had heard in his voice before. But, if she had to make an educated guess, she would describe it as being an edge of pure, unrestricted and uncontrollable fear. And yet, as he spoke, he sounded as confident and as calm as ever, despite the fact that Joan knew him to be finding this present situation increasingly difficult.

"I don't know what you're talking about" Greta returned, her voice low and almost mechanical. "And I would like you to leave."

"Your failure to disclose this information, as well as your appalling treatment of your former employee, has resulted in not only attacks on others, but on yourself, and on Miss Watson" Sherlock continued, keeping his voice even and fairly calm. "Your deception caused you to be attacked once more which, I hope you understand, I am deeply sorry for, and I am glad that you have regained consciousness, and are recovering" Sherlock continued, speaking slowly and gesturing slightly with his hands. "By not revealing your lover's identity, you were protecting yourself, at the expense of others. Now, whilst I abhor that action, I understand it. Truly, I do. But what I do not understand, what I cannot fathom" he continued, reddening slightly as he spoke, and adopting a slightly less controlled voice. "Is why you would lure Miss Watson into that situation."

"What?" Greta asked, shifting her glance from Sherlock to Joan.

"Your deceit directly endangered your own life. Now, as a smart woman, I am sure you knew that. You were aware of the risk you were taking in not disclosing the identity of your lover to us" Sherlock explained, in a calmer and more relaxed manner. "But why would you compromise the life of yet another innocent person? In fact, you did not just put her at some risk, you _lured _her into your home, where you knew the attacker was, knowing that she would be placed in danger. And here she is, before you, right now. And still, you lie. Still, you deceive" Sherlock paused for a moment, dropping his voice as he watched Mrs Mathers with a pained expression. "What will it take for you to tell the truth, and stop endangering the lives of innocent people?"

"I didn't make any phone call" she choked, averting her eyes from Sherlock. Joan took a step towards him as he prepared himself to speak, hoping that her presence would be enough to relax him. It was not.

"Phone records from the day of your second attack record a call being made by your cell phone to Miss Watson, which lasted for about fifteen seconds" Sherlock returned, calming slightly as he felt Joan's presence by his side.

"I don't remember" Greta returned dismissively, crossing her arms across her chest. "But I would like you to leave."

"Greta" Joan asked in a gentle, soothing tone, as she approached the bed. "What has happened to you, what happened to those other women, needs to be atoned for. Whatever you have done, or have failed to do, can be dealt with by telling us the truth" she continued, watching as Greta's cool exterior began to falter. "Were you having a romantic relationship with Maria Lennard during her employment with you?"

"No" Greta returned immediately, shaking her head slightly as she spoke. "Now get out."

"We'll be back later, Mrs Mathers" Gregson stated, as he took a step behind Sherlock. He could sense that the detective was getting heated, possibly due to the fact his partner's life had been threatened. Gregson understood Sherlock's anger and, if anything, respected him for showing such restraint when talking to Mrs Mathers. But he knew that this situation could get dangerously out of control and, from an evidential point of view, they were already treading on thin ice. Anything which could call into question the reliability or validity of the evidence, or the persons who obtained it, could compromise their case. "I hope you feel better." Mrs Mathers did not respond to this statement, but simply crossed her arms and stared into the corner of the room, until the team had filtered out, and met in the corridor. Joan stood a few feet away from Sherlock, knowing that he would need some space to think, to process what had just happened, and to calm himself.

"She's lying" Sherlock said simply after a few moments of silence. "After everything that has happened, after everything that she has done, she is still lying."

"She's been through a lot" Joan reasoned, in an attempt to placate her partner. "I'm not saying I agree with what she's doing, but I think that, considering what has happened to her, and what she is afraid will happen next, her silence and her denial makes sense. It's awful, it's selfish and it is certainly wrong. But we won't break her silence by acting on the offensive. We need to figure out another way." Sherlock nodded once in response, before staring ahead for a few seconds, then turning towards Gregson.

"Captain, I think it is quite obvious that nothing more can be achieved today. I suggest we all go home, consider separate strategies, and discuss them in the morning. Is that agreeable?"

"Sure" Gregson returned, nodding in response, and notably impressed by Sherlock's reasonable and rational suggestion. He was clearly still annoyed, but he was managing himself well.

"Excellent" Sherlock returned, leaning back on his heels, as he began to tap his fingers upon his thigh. He then walked briskly past the group and down the corridor, heading towards the elevator. Joan watched him for a few moments, before thanking Gregson and Bell, and following Sherlock. She reached the elevator just as he stepped inside, and found him with his back pressed against the glass, holding one finger to the emergency stop button until Joan had stepped inside. She took a few steps forward, standing next to him against the wall, as the doors closed slowly and the elevator began to descend.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently, turning her head towards him.

"I... apologise, Watson" Sherlock responded instantly, his voice adopting the tone of sincere regret he often used to address Joan when he had done something he knew she would not completely approve of. "Listening to her lies, yet again, after everything that happened, was just-".

"I know" Joan returned, turning her head to face forward. "It wasn't the easiest thing to hear, and I understand your anger and frustration."

"It's just-" he began, sighing as he stared up at the ceiling of the elevator. "She... she called you, Watson. She told you that you were right, and you went to help her, which almost led to-" Sherlock broke off, unable to finish the sentence. Joan gave him a few moments, before turning her head towards him, as he prepared himself to continue. "And now, she... she continues to deny what we already know to be true." 

"She's afraid it will all come out" Joan reasoned. "She doesn't want her husband, her firm, and all her rich society friends to know that she had an affair with a PA. And she certainly doesn't want them to know that her lover is a serial killer who attempted to kill her twice." Sherlock nodded, drumming his fingers nervously against his thigh as he listened to Joan's words. Joan watched him for a few moments, before taking a step closer to him, and taking his hand in hers, holding it tightly and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "What is it with us and elevators?" she asked, her voice adopting a light and conversational tone. Sherlock smiled slightly, before turning towards Joan, and squeezing her hand in return.

"Thank you, Watson" he said in a low, gentle tone. And he meant it.

"We will figure this out" she stated with conviction. "We have all the pieces of the puzzle, we just need to find a way of putting them together. We've done it before, and we'll do it again" she continued, turning her head to face forward as the elevator came to a stop, and the doors began to open. Joan went to release her hold on Sherlock's hand, believing that he would not wish to take part in such a public display, especially when their relationship was still a secret. And yet, as they stepped out of the elevator as her hand weakened beneath his, she was surprised to find that he drew her hand gently back to his own. She looked up at him for a moment, but he did not return her glance. Instead they walked, side by side, hand in hand, out of the hospital, onto the street, and up to a waiting taxi. Although their act of holding hands was something which would not be noticed by most people, and certainly not to any large extent, to Joan, it meant a lot. It was one of the strongest indicators of his feelings for her, and his contentment at displaying their relationship. It was especially significant as she knew how difficult it was for him to do, especially considering how much he had struggled to restrain his understandable anger and frustration in the hospital room.

As they sat in the back of the taxi, hands still entwined, Joan allowed her thoughts to drift from the case and onto their relationship. Unlike the case, their romantic relationship had been developing at a pleasant, manageable and in a thoroughly enjoyable manner, which they both seemed perfectly content with. They had been out together several times, spent time together at home and in semi-romantic settings, and were continuing to explore each other's minds, thoughts and concerns on their developing relationship. And yet, it recent weeks, the time they had spent together romantically had been notably limited, due to the sheer amount of work they had been undertaking. As the cab pulled up outside the brownstone, Joan considered just how much they had been working, how tired they were, and how emotionally draining the most recent interview had been for Sherlock. As Sherlock paid the driver, she decided that the rest of their evening would be best spent by their relaxing, and spending some time together as partners in the romantic sense, not professional one.

As they entered the brownstone, Joan hung up her scarf and coat, and began to remove her gloves, as she turned to Sherlock and began to speak.

"You're tired" she began soothingly, causing Sherlock to turn to face her, his arms partially concealed within the depths of the coat he was in the process of removing. "We both are. I think we should use the rest of this evening to... to relax. To allow everything else, all things work-related, case-related, stress-related, to take a back seat, okay? Just for tonight." Sherlock watched her with interest for a few moments, his wide yet tired eyes meeting her own, before he nodded in agreement.

"Very well, Watson" he stated kindly, taking a step towards her and kissing her on the cheek. "I must check on the bees first, then I shall be at your disposal."

"I'll make some tea" she returned, running her hand down his arm as their cheeks brushed one another, before Sherlock walked slowly past her and up the stairs.

Joan could hear his footsteps as he ran up the staircases and towards the roof, and she found herself smiling at his eagerness as she made her way towards the kitchen. Joan ran her hand tiredly through her hair as she approached the stove, filling the kettle and applying heat, before turning towards one of the cupboards. As she turned, she found herself experiencing the same dizziness and unsteadiness she had earlier that morning, but with a much greater effect. She staggered back slightly, and pressed her hands against the counter to steady herself. She breathed in heavily, as she continued to feel shaky and unstable. Before she could process her thoughts, she felt suddenly overcome by a strong wave of nausea, causing her act immediately and instinctively, turning on the spot and leaning into the sink, where she was violently sick. After a few moments, she found that her nausea had abated, but her tiredness and dizziness had remained. She ran the cold tap, cleaning the sink, and splashing some cool water upon her face.

Joan leaned heavily with one hand upon the sink, bending over it slightly, as she placed her free hand over her mouth. She took in a shaky breath, staring into the sink as she considered her symptoms. The tiredness, aching, feelings of unsteadiness and shakiness, as well as the nausea. Joan ran her fingers lightly across her lips, before splashing some cool water upon her neck, which refreshed her slightly. She then pushed herself away from the sink with her left hand, which she placed on her lower back, before resting her head in her right hand. _Dizziness, tiredness, nausea_ she repeated in her head, struggling to think clearly as she felt unwell and uneasy. But, somehow, through the illness and the confusion, Joan found herself experiencing a sudden and terrifying moment of clarity. She opened her eyes, and slowly lifted her head from her hand, before dropping her gaze. She placed her free hand slowly and tentatively on the outside of her shirt, pressing it delicately to her abdomen. She stared down at herself for several minutes, considering her symptoms and their implication as the sound of running water permeated the silence.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: Hi everyone, thanks for your continued support, I hope you are enjoying the story so far. I was intending on making it shorter, but have added the latest storyline re: JW, which means that the case will be seen through until the very end. There will be some twists, confrontations and threats, as well as the hospitalisation of one of the main characters. I apologise if this seems unnecessarily drawn out, but I had another idea which I felt could work well with the storyline. In this particular case, we will see the case unravel during the trial, and we will get to know some of the characters (including GM and ML) in much greater depth. This story will be no longer than 45 chapters long. If there are any issues/concerns/criticisms please do let me know. Thanks, HQ21

Joan stood in front of the sink for a couple of minutes, her hand pressed lightly upon her lower abdomen, as the water continued to run, causing small drops of it to splash onto her flushed skin. Other than the sound of the running water, the room was quiet, with the sound of Joan's deep, low breathing breaking the silence. She slowly removed her hand from her abdomen, placing it upon the edge of the sink, which she used to steady herself. Her mind was racing, and she found herself feeling flushed and overwhelmed, and struggling to acknowledge the possibility which had just occurred to her. Joan pursed her lips, and rose her slightly shaking hand from the side of the sink, before turning off the tap, and finding herself overwhelmed by the silence of the room.

Joan inhaled deeply, placing both of her hands on the edge of the cold sink, and clutching it tightly, as though it were her only support, the only thing which was physically preventing her from falling. She stared at the water in the sink, watching as it began to drain slowly down the sink, the small droplets trailing towards the gaping hole in the centre. She closed her eyes for a moment, and clutched the sink tighter, before feeling her grip weaken slightly, and her hands begin to shake. Now that she was standing in the dimly lit, silent room, she found that her thoughts seemed louder than ever. She tightened her grip on the sink for support as she once more considered her symptoms in her mind, remembering how tired and dizzy she had felt that morning, and how, for the past few days, she had experienced occasional feelings of nausea, which she had put down to overwork and under-eating. But now, as she stood in the silence of the room, she found herself wide-eyes and alert, and facing the startling possibility that her symptoms had a very different implication. She inhaled sharply, and ran her fingers lightly down the cold, damp edge of the sink, which temporarily soothed her flushed and burning skin. She had been feeling increasingly tired, light-headed and nauseous, and could not remember the last time she had her period. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, and could feel her breathing rate increase as she became frustrated at her inability to remember, which caused her to tighten her grip on the sink once more.

As she was struggling to remember the last date, she found herself thinking back, one week at a time, and yet being unable to confirm that she had had her period on any one of those dates. She had been so preoccupied with the case, and with her developing relationship with Sherlock, that she had not paid much attention to her body or to her routine. And now, as she stood alone and frightened in the dark kitchen, her inability to recall the date made her feel very afraid. As she cast her mind back one week, then two, then three, she was certain that she had not had her period. And, as she thought further back than this, she found herself stopping on the date a little over six weeks ago, when she and Sherlock slept together, in a room ten feet from where she was currently standing. Despite her feelings of overwhelming fear and uncertainty, Joan remembered the evening fondly and with perfect recollection, and found her whole body resonating with warmth at the thought of it. It had been perfect, wonderful. It had been spontaneous, unplanned. Although Joan was on the pill, she knew that it was not full-proof or the most reliable form of contraception, especially when used by itself. As she cast her mind back to the evening they spent with each other, embraced and entwined beside the burning fire, she found herself remembering that neither of them had taken any additional precautions. It happened after a time of extreme emotional distress, when they both needed to be close, to be more connected to and more loved by one another than they had been ever before. This did not mean that she viewed the experience, in hindsight, as a mistake. Far from it. Whatever the outcome, whatever would happen next, that night was _not_ a mistake.

"And nor are you" Joan mumbled, almost inaudibly, into the darkness. She found her breath catch at her declaration, which she did not even realise she had formed into words, until they came echoing back to her. She found herself feeling slightly giddy and flushed, almost as though the moment was not real, that it was not happening. But the moment she evaluated her symptoms, and came to the startling and unexpected conclusion that she had done, she knew that it was right, and that it was very real. Although she would need confirmation, the last few minutes of thought and consideration had left very little doubt in her mind that she was carrying Sherlock's child. Her eyes widened as she considered this statement in her mind. _Sherlock's child_ she thought, breathing in deeply as her hands held the edge of the sink with a strong grip. _Our child_.

"Watson" came an eager and overly-animated voice from behind her, which caused her to turn quickly on the spot, where she found herself staring at Sherlock, who was watching her with wide-eyes and a keen expression. Joan reacted instantly and automatically, her whole face relaxing slightly as she gave him a pleasant, encouraging glance, whilst maintaining her grip on the sink behind her. She felt that if she let go of the sink, she would certainly fall to the ground. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softening slightly, as his eyes ran over her body analytically, before resting upon her face. Joan did not respond immediately, but parted her lips slightly and stared at him for a moment, before glancing to the side, and then facing him directly. In this time, she was surprised to find that Sherlock had crossed the room, and was now standing before her. "Watson?" he asked gently, drumming his fingers on his thigh, as he stood just a few feet in front of her.

"You startled me" she explained, speaking in a calm and even manner, her voice almost normal. Almost. Sherlock watched her for a moment, his eyes falling from her eyes to her hands, which had now fallen to her sides, before staring back up at her, and meeting her alert gaze with concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked, taking a step towards her, and reaching for her hand. Joan inhaled deeply as she felt his hand clasp her own in a reassuring manner, her whole body warming at the contact. She did not allow her eyes to leave his own, and initially felt slightly more relaxed as a result of his action. However, her calmness only lasted for a moment, before she was once more awash with fear and concern. As she looked up at Sherlock, who was watching her with a mixture of concern and interest, she felt flushed and afraid once more.

"Yeah, I-" she began, adjusting her hand slightly in his, and attempting to regain her composure. "Sorry, I'm just so tired" she continued, offering him a small, weary smile, as she squeezed his hand lightly in return. "I didn't really sleep last night, and after spending the majority of the day reading and re-reading those files, and then interviewing Greta again-".

"It's hardly surprising that you're so tired" Sherlock responded, speaking in a low and curious tone. Joan watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what he was thinking. She was tired, exhausted, in fact. But she was also experiencing other symptoms which she knew she would not be able to conceal from him for long, despite how preoccupied they both were with the case. He was standing before her, and she could not tell if he believed her, or whether he was trying to analyse her, figure out what it was she was hiding. She felt guilty at this thought, and at her concealment. But she felt too tired and too confused to discuss the matter with him now. And, despite her own personal intuition and medical expertise, she could not be absolutely positive that she was pregnant. It was not something she felt was fair to raise with him until she was sure. And, despite the fact that she was trying to suppress the emotion, banish it from her thoughts and her reason, she was afraid. In the three or four minutes since she had had the realisation, she had never felt so frightened, vulnerable and completely overwhelmed. She didn't want him to feel that too.

"You must be exhausted, too" she stated after a few seconds of silence, in which she felt increasingly nervous. "You've been working longer hours than I have" she continued, tilting her head slightly as examined the tired look which was etched upon his features, and a glassiness in his eyes which she had not noticed before. "When was the last time you slept?" Sherlock did not respond immediately, but continued to watch her with his bright and alert eyes. She noticed that he seemed to have relaxed slightly, and was not looking at her as though she was about to break. He seemed satisfied with her explanation of her tiredness and current state, and she was grateful for it. After all, it was not completely untrue.

"I think your suggestion of a night-off was a wise one, Watson" he stated, drawing Joan from her thoughts. "Would you like to spend some time in the front room?"

"Sure" she responded mechanically. As she considered his words, she found herself remembering the last time they 'spent time' in that room. She remembered the gentle crackling of the fire, the feeling of his bare chest against her skin, and how safe and secure she felt as she wrapped her legs around him, and their bodies entwined. "The kettle's boiled, I'll bring the tea straight through." Sherlock nodded in response, before slowly removing his hand from hers, and turning towards the doorway.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, turning slightly on the spot to face her.

"Are you?" she responded, her mind still flooded with thoughts relating to the matter which was preoccupying her. In truth, she did not know if she was hungry. She was experiencing a strange sensation, the feeling you get when you are both nervous and excited, and it makes your stomach feel unsettled and empty. Even if she was hungry, she doubted whether she would be able to eat a thing. _But maybe I have to_ she reasoned, considering the potential consequences of undernourishment during the early stages of pregnancy. _Pregnancy_. The word seemed unfamiliar to her, unknown. And yet it caused her to experience a multitude of emotions, some which she could not yet identify, all at once. "I could eat" she stated amiably, crossing her arms across her chest. Sherlock observed the motion, watching her warmly as he began to speak.

"Then we shall" he stated in his usual genial and animated fashion. "I'll find the menus. Do you have a preference?"

"No" she returned, opening the cupboard behind her and selecting two mugs. "Not at all" she continued, speaking to him over her shoulder.

Sherlock nodded, watching her as she prepared the tea and poured the water. Something was not quite right, but he could not identify it. She certainly was tired, and had barely eaten in the past few days. He suspected that these factors, combined with their heavy workload, were having an affect upon her. He also considered the possibility that their most recent interview with Mrs Mathers had brought back unpleasant memories relating to her attack at the apartment, which would certainly explain her nervousness and agitation. Knowing Watson, she was probably attempting to suppress her concerns, brush them aside as though they were unimportant, subordinate to the case. They were not. Sherlock was acutely aware of the affect of denying trauma, of not acknowledging the pain and fear caused by physical or emotional attacks. The fact that she had not actually discussed what happened in that room with him (in any great detail, at least), was certainly a strong indicator that it was something she was trying to suppress. He hoped that she would disclose her fears with him, that she would know she was able to talk about them openly, and that he was more than willing to listen. But in order to facilitate this, she needed to be comfortable, relaxed. She needed to know that there were people who cared about her, and who wanted to help her. She also needed to know that admitting you are struggling is not a weakness, nor should it be ignored. Sherlock nodded once more, lowering his head slightly and drumming his fingers lightly on his thigh as he considered his thoughts. The best thing he could do for Watson was to create a comfortable and calm environment which would help her to relax. She was clearly exhausted, and he was certain that she had been neglecting her nutritional needs. These were the first things he needed to take care of. After that, he needed to make sure that she knew that she was safe here, and surrounded by support and care. She needed to feel safe, to know that she could open up to him again, as she had begun to. As he had begun to. _Yes_, he thought with conviction, _this is how I can help Joan Watson_.

"Of course" he responded, nodding and offering her a warm smile. "I'll locate the menus" he stated as he left the room, in a bright and animated fashion, which made Joan smile slightly, and find herself temporarily calmed by the serenity of her partner, and the relaxing nature of the evening. As Joan poured the tea, she found that her breathing was returning to normal, despite the familiar feeling of fear which was rising in her. It didn't feel quite real, somehow. Any of it. And yet, despite this, despite how she was struggling to maintain a firm grasp on the possibility, it felt very, very real. So real, in fact, that it felt almost like an empirical certainty. As Joan filled the second cup with the boiling water, she placed her hands upon the handles, rising them slightly in the air, before finding herself stopping suddenly due to sounds from the room next door. Music.

Joan paused for a moment, her hands holding the heated mugs in mid-air, as she listened to the familiar sound of the soothing and enchanting music from the next room. She closed her eyes, and felt her whole body relax for a moment, as though the gentle notes of the piano music were massaging her nerves and muscles, allowing her to surrender her fears completely. But only for a moment. Joan opened her eyes, lifted the mugs, and carried them through to the next room. She felt as though she was gliding through the doors, the music was so relaxing and so calming. As she passed through the doorway, she saw the familiar figure of Sherlock bent over his gramophone, adjusting it slightly, as the melody continued to play.

"That's beautiful" Joan stated, her voice low and warm, causing Sherlock to turn on the spot. He gave her a warm smile, before crossing the room and taking the mugs from her, and placing them on a table which he had put in front of the red couch. She watched him with interest as he did so, before he returned to her and handed her a sheaf of familiar papers.

"Yes" Sherlock stated, "I felt it would help to create a peaceful and calming atmosphere which is conductive to rest."

"I think you're right" Joan responded absent-mindedly, as she flicked through the menus and selected one. "How does Cantonese sound?"

"Unfamiliar" Sherlock stated, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the menu. "It must be an entire four days since we last sampled the cuisine."

"We'd better order quickly then" Joan returned, handing him the menu. Sherlock accepted it, and watched her with a look of warmth and adoration, which instantly soothed her. But, again, only for a moment.

"Would you like the usual?" he asked, typing the number into his cell phone, and holding it to his ear.

"Sure" she stated, giving him a small, tired smile, before walking past him and sitting down on the red couch. Despite how comforting the material was, and how calm she always felt when leaning into it, she found herself unable to relax. She perched on the edge whilst Sherlock made the phone call, and found herself staring at the fireplace, as the memories of their night together flooded her memory. She stared at the empty fireplace with tired, unblinking eyes, as she considered the possible consequence of their night of passion. She felt herself feeling flushed and unsteady once more, and crossed her arms again, before adjusting herself on the couch.

"Are you cold, Watson?" Sherlock asked, causing her eyes to turn to him instantly. She realised that her sitting position and crossed arms implied that she was trying to increase her body temperature. As she processed his words, she glanced around the room, and nodded slowly. She was quite cold, but had not been aware of it before he asked her.

"Yeah, actually" she began, but before she could continue, Sherlock had crossed the room and began to work on the fire, which was soon crackling pleasantly, giving the room a more relaxing and homelier feeling. Joan was also happy as it provided some background noise, which was much favourable to an uncomfortable silence which she was afraid of. Although, with Sherlock, there were rarely silences. And when they were, they were not uncomfortable. Worrying, certainly, but never uncomfortable. But then again, they had never been faced with something like this. "Thank you." Sherlock stood from his crouching position, walked to the couch, and handed Joan her mug, before sitting beside her.

"Not at all" he responded, as he drank cautiously from the mug. Joan wrapped her hands around her mug and copied the action, finding that her nausea and feelings of general unease were soothed by the warm and revitalising liquid. She continued to sip it gently, and was relieved to find that her nausea had abated.

Sherlock and Joan sat beside each other for several minutes, sipping their tea and listening to the relaxing music. They had no need for words, their close proximity providing them both with all the words of assurance and compassion they could need. As Joan sipped the last of her tea, she leaned across to place the mug back on the table, and found her leg brushing against Sherlock's, which filled her with familiar waves of excitement and longing, but something else too. Fear. She breathed in, attempting to control herself, as she battled this feeling. In the past fifteen minutes, she had experienced moments of calmness and tranquillity, even when considering the likelihood of her pregnancy. But then, all of a sudden, her whole body would be flooded with feelings of fear and inadequacy, of uncertainty and of self-doubt. It was after this that she experienced guilt. Guilt at the fact that she had not yet disclosed her concerns to Sherlock. But before she discussed it with him, she had resolved to find out whether there was anything _to_ discuss, and also, to allow herself a little time to consider the information if it was true. She wanted to be able to spent a short amount of time alone, where she could process the information, and establish exactly how she felt about it, and what her concerns were, before she revealed her secret to another person. Although Joan felt that this was a sound, logical and justified approach, she was still overwhelmed with guilt and fear, which was swimming in her tired head.

"Watson" Sherlock called gently, drawing her from her thoughts. "Would you care to dance?"

Joan did not respond immediately, the remnants of her thoughts still lingering in her mind. And yet, as soon as he asked the question, familiar feelings of excitement and anticipation flooded through her, and she found herself smiling slightly at the nervousness of his request.

"Sure" she answered, taking his hand in hers, as he stood up, and drew her to the centre of the room.

"You know" Sherlock began, as he placed one hand on her lower waist, and held her free hand with the other. "This particular piece was the first I learned to play in boarding school" he continued, as he moved slowly across the room with Joan, holding her gently to him.

"Do you like it?" she asked, as she drew herself closer to him. Sherlock complied, guiding her forward with the hand he had resting on her lower back, until she was pressed gently against his chest.

"I do" he returned, speaking in a low, soft voice. "There's something rather... attractive about it" he stated, as Joan removed her hand from his, and placed her hands across his back, hugging him to her, as she rested her cheek on his shoulder. Sherlock placed one arm across her back, and a hand by her shoulder blade, holding her close to him as they continued to move with the music. They were not travelling around the room any more, but remaining almost stationary, just holding each other tightly. The comfort and reassurance Joan experienced at this action was beyond description. He strength in Sherlock's arms, and the way he was holding her, made her feel both protected and loved. Although she had never actively sought the protection of a man, priding herself in her independence and ability to look after herself, she found herself both grateful and willing to accept Sherlock's protection and his love. She closed her eyes, nuzzling into his neck as she held him close to her.

Sherlock sensed a shift in her movement, and noted how she seemed to apply slightly more pressure to his back, as though she were trying to pull him closer to her. He complied with her request, and moved one hand slowly up her back, before resting it on the back of her head, where he stroked her hair. She sighed, her warm breath drifting across his cheek, causing his eyes to close contently as his heart began to race. They remained like this for several minutes, lightly swaying to the soft piano music, as they indulged in the highest level of intimacy which they felt able to share at that particular time. They were only drawn from their reveries when, ten minutes later, the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of their food. They removed themselves, sadly and reluctantly, from the dance, as Sherlock walked to the front door and Joan made her way to the kitchen, each gathering the necessary items, before reconvening in the front room.

Sherlock and Joan ate at the table in the front room, brushing aside the various files, laptops and hand-written notes which littered the space before them. As soon as the food was placed before her, and the familiar scents swam in the air, Joan found that she was hungrier than she realised. When everything was unwrapped, she fought the urge to gather as much of it as she could and consume it as quickly as possible. Instead, she selected a few dishes which she enjoyed, and nibbled on them cautiously. She avoided anything overly spicy, sticking to the plainer foods, fearful that her nausea would return. Although she ate slowly and carefully, she consumed more that night than she had in the past two days, which relieved Sherlock greatly. After they had eaten, Joan cleared away the plates, before joining Sherlock once more in the front room, where he was sitting on the red couch, and watching her with care.

Joan perched herself on the edge of the sofa, and clasped her hands together, before edging slightly closer to him. The feeling of his leg against hers filled her with a slight degree of comfort and reassurance, which disappeared when she realised that he had turned his head slightly to face her. Instead of talking to him about her suspicion, of discussing her concern, she simply tilted her head to the left, and leaned into him, just like she did when they were dancing. Sherlock reacted instantly, his whole body relaxing as he wrapped one arm across Joan, who buried her head in his jacket. He drew her closer to him, as she wrapped her arm across his chest, and pulled her legs onto the sofa, before closing her eyes and attempting to relax into him. Sherlock welcomed this movement, and used his free arm to draw her closer to him, before holding her securely. Joan sighed contently, closing her eyes as she leaned further into him, and found herself more soothed and comforted than she felt herself able to be at this particular moment. She felt her breathing pattern become more regular, and her heavy eyes felt lighter, as she slowly drifted off to sleep.

Sherlock remained perfectly still for several minutes, until Joan's position and breathing revealed that she was truly asleep. He smiled slightly, as he considered her sleeping position with his own tired eyes. Their case was clearly having an effect on her, but the fact that she had leaned into him, had eaten, and was now asleep, reassured him greatly. He only hoped that, when she felt ready, she would talk to him about the exact incident that was troubling her.

"Sleep well, Watson" he mumbled, pressing a chaste kiss upon her forehead. This caused her to shift slightly in her position, splaying her hand across his chest, so that it rested over his heart. Sherlock had one arm wrapped across her upper back, but used his free hand to pick up a blanket from the back of the couch, which he drew over her sleeping figure. She sighed contently at the motion, leaning closer to him, as she remained asleep. Sherlock continued to watch the scene with interest, and found himself in awe of her sleeping figure. Joan had rarely appeared so tired, so in need of looking after, and he was certain that it was not something she found easy to accept or to do. But he was grateful that, at this time, and in his presence, she made an exception.


	26. Chapter 26

*** A/N: Hey everyone, thanks again for your support on the story. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter. Again, any comments/queries/concerns/advice is greatly appreciated :) I've noticed some concerns over the fact that Sherlock did not pick up on the fact that Joan missed her period. My logic was that, as they had been so embroiled in the case, small things like this could have been missed by both Sherlock and Joan. Also, in the last season, Joan was in a romantic relationship with Mycroft, so I thought that it would be likely she was taking some kind of precaution. A known side-effect of the pill is that it can affect cycles, making them irregular/hard to predict etc, which could explain Sherlock not being aware/noticing. When writing these kind of fics, it can be so hard to make it seem realistic that Joan discovers she is pregnant before Sherlock does! So I apologise if this seemed unrealistic/unlikely, I guess I need to put some more thought into certain aspects of the plot. But thank you for your comments, they really are invaluable, and hopefully they will help me to improve. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and another one will be posted tomorrow, which will focus much more on Joan and Sherlock (and will probably be of a similar length). Thanks again, HQ21

Joan slept soundly that night, and was able to enjoy the benefits of a night of completely unbroken sleep. The moment that her eyes had shut as she leaned into Sherlock, she had been rendered completely unconscious, and there was almost nothing that could have awoken her from her much-needed rest. So deep was her slumber that she did not even stir when, a couple of hours after having first fallen asleep, Sherlock lifted her into her arms and carried her to her room. He gathered her up carefully in his arms, drawing her small, tired body to him as he carefully negotiated the stairs, pushed her bedroom door open with his back, and lay her delicately upon her welcoming bed. Joan moaned slightly as she left his arms, but was soon content when she was immersed in cushions and wrapped in the layers of blankets her bed offered. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, until he was satisfied that her sleep had been undisturbed by his movements. He would have gladly allowed her to sleep upon him for the entire night, if it had not been for the fact that he was aware of the level of discomfort she would experience in the morning. She had appeared so tired recently, and so lethargic, that he wished to ensure she had as much undisturbed rest as possible. As he gazed thoughtfully down upon her, his wide, glistening eyes resting upon her sleeping figure, he admired the look of peace and contentment on her face, and found himself smiling lightly in the darkness. "Sweet dreams, Watson" he whispered, before turning from the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

When Joan woke the next morning, she spread her arms gratefully into the cushions which were arranged untidily above her head, before drawing the blankets across her, and leaning to the side. At the feeling of the blankets and cushions, and the notable familiarity of her current location, Joan's eyes snapped open, and she sat upright in bed. It took her a few seconds to remember the events of the previous night. She did not recall walking to her room, but did remember leaning into Sherlock, and experiencing a moment of perfectly calmness and contentment, which allowed her entrance into the realm of sleep. As she glanced around the room, she correctly surmised how she had come to awaken in her own bed. And, as the cool air came flooding in from the slightly-open window, Joan found herself feeling more awake and alert. And, as ever, with consciousness came realisation. Joan froze for a moment, her hands pressed upon the mattress, as she released a shuddering breath. She found herself feeling flushed and panicky once more, as her concerns and suspicions from the previous night came flooding back to her, hitting her with an almost physical force.

Despite the fact that she was unsure whether she was pregnant, and that she had only been considering the possibility for less than a day, she found that she was now able to think more clearly. The cloudiness which had plagued her mind the day before was gone, and she found herself considering the possibility that she was carrying Sherlock's child in a much more logical and clear-headed manner. The things she was afraid of, including telling him, herself as a mother, and the decisions that they would need to make, were all pushed to the back of her mind for the time being. As she sat beneath the covers, running her hand tiredly across her face, she knew that the first thing she needed to do before anything else was to confirm her suspicions, or disprove them. Either way, she needed to know.

Joan glanced tiredly to the side, turning her alarm clock towards her, and squinting at the brightly-lit digital numbers which stared back at her. It was 5.53am, but her body was telling her it was much later. As soon as she had regained full consciousness, Joan found that the memories of her thoughts and fears from the previous night came flooding back to her, hitting her with an almost physical force. She felt worried, self-doubting and incredibly overwhelmed. Joan tossed aside her blankets, lowered her feet onto the cool ground, and eased herself out of bed. She decided to use the couple of hours she had between the present time and a socially-acceptable time to call her friend the way she always used her time when she felt stressed or worried or angry. She would go for a run.

Despite the tiredness and nausea Joan experienced the day before, Joan awoke that morning feeling revitalised. Whether it was the sleep, the clarity of her thoughts, or something else, she found herself feeling more alert and awake than she had in recent weeks. She felt well. Very well, in fact. So well, that she found herself questioning her own suspicions. _Maybe I'm wrong_ she thought, as she walked slowly over to her chest of drawers and began selecting her running clothes. _Maybe it was just a stomach bug_. And yet, as she changed into her running clothes and tied the laces on her new shoes, she found that wrestling with the idea was both fruitless and unnecessary. As she ran the words over and over in her mind, she found herself believing them less and less. This conviction in her thoughts, her inability to concede that perhaps she was wrong, surprised her. Although she had experienced some symptoms which may indicate that she was pregnant, it was not certain, it had not been confirmed. As she tied her hair back with a black band, she found herself questioning why, despite the lack of certainty in her condition, her mind seemed to be without a doubt. Joan exhaled sharply, before plugging her headphones into her phone and selecting a play list. She swayed to the music for a few seconds, before walking quickly from the room, jogging down the stairs, and running from the building.

Joan ran for almost an hour, at her usual steady rate. She paid little attention to her surroundings, and none to her thoughts, focusing solely on the motivational music which was flooding her mind. At least, this appeared to be the case. Just as Joan was about to turn and head back to the brownstone, she found herself pausing on the pavement, and staring at the bright letters of the building on the opposite side of the street: a 24/7 chemist. As Joan glanced upon the building, she felt the breath leave her body, as the now familiar flushed sensation gripped her once more. She swallowed hard, before extracting her phone from her pocket, and glancing at the time. It was a few minutes after seven o'clock in the morning. As she glanced up from her phone, she found herself staring at the building once more, and felt completely unable to move. She was vaguely aware of a few pedestrians walking past her, a newspaper vendor calling out in the background, and the scent of freshly-ground coffee which swam in the air. And yet, despite this, she did not feel able to walk the fifteen meters across the street to go into the chemists, get what she needed, and leave. Joan remained standing for a few minutes, transfixed on the sight ahead of her, until the honking of a cab horn in the near distance drew her from her thoughts. She turned away from the sound, and faced the building once more, her eyes bright and alert, as she stared at the flickering green letters which appeared to be attempting to lure her in. After a couple of seconds, Joan conceded. She took a few cautious steps into the road, before finding herself feeling more confident and determined, and walking briskly across the road.

The door to the chemist's was stiff, and Joan had to pull on it with notable force before it opened. The persistent ringing of a bell above her head drew her from her thoughts, and she found herself glancing around the aisles of the small store. She was not familiar with this particular chemist's, which appeared to be an independent one. The store itself was quiet, with just a middle-aged woman sitting behind the till, pricing some individual packages of gum. She smiled politely at Joan as she entered, which Joan returned, before removing her earphones and lowering her hood, and walking down the first aisle. Now that she had no music or exercise to distract her, Joan felt increasingly nervous, with her previous thoughts and concerns flooding her mind. She walked briskly up the aisles, scanning each side quickly for what she needed, before stopping at the end of the third aisle, and staring at the items before her. One of the shelves was stacked with boxes of pregnancy tests. Different brands, types and shapes were staring up at Joan Watson, as she glanced across them each in turn. She briefly read the information on the front of the packaging, before turning her attention to the images portrayed, then quickly running her eyes across the shelf to the next test. After a few minutes, she selected a box, plucked it from its position on the shelf, and carried it with a notable air of determination towards the matronly-looking woman behind the counter.

As she approached the counter and placed the item on the desk, the woman gave Joan an odd look beneath her glasses. It reminded her of the look a principle's secretary would give a naughty school child who approached the office covered in mud and torn clothing. Clearly about to confess, to face up to consequences of their actions. Of being caught in a situation which they had not expected. Despite her concern and her fear, Joan could not help but smile at the thought. She exchanged a few brief words with the woman, none of which were in relation to the item which lay between them upon the counter, before placing a twenty-dollar bill on the desk and telling her to keep the change. Joan picked up the box from the counter, placing it in the small zip-bag which was secured across her hips, replacing her earphones, and running all the way home.

Joan arrived at the brownstone just before eight in the morning, and found her body tingling with a mixture of revitalisation and apprehension as she slowly unlocked the door. She hadn't been running in a while, so the muscles in her legs and arms felt tired and heavy, but the rest of her felt very alert, very awake and very alive. Whether it was simply the endorphins released from the exercise, the combination of her night of rest with her concerns and fears, or something else entirely, Joan did not know. But her current state of calmness and detachment was put to the ultimate test by the tall, muscular figure standing before her. Between her position by the coat rack and the staircase stood the shirtless figure of Sherlock Holmes, who was dressed in sweatpants and brandishing his single-stick, whilst watching her with an unsuspecting look.

"Watson" he breathed, his voice husky from recent exercise. "How was your run?"

"Fine" she returned, unzipping her jacket and securing it around her waist. She felt the material of her sleeve tighten across the bag which held the pregnancy test, and her heart clenched slightly at the contact. She turned her eyes back towards Sherlock, offered him a small smile, and continued to speak. "You haven't practised your single-stick in a while."

"Work commitments have led to me neglecting the fine art" Sherlock began, turning the stick over in his hand, before raising it in the air, and pointing it at Joan. "Care for a spar, Miss Watson?" Joan watched him for a moment, before shifting slightly on the spot, her eyes widening slightly. As soon as Sherlock had made his suggestion, she found her hands wandering protectively down to her lower abdomen. She did not feel threatened by Sherlock or his motion, but found herself feeling a strange, innate draw towards her stomach, which she instantly covered by tying her jacket tighter across her.

"I'll pass, thanks" she returned brightly. "What time are we heading to the precinct?"

"Whenever you're quite ready, Watson" Sherlock returned, lowering his single-stick to his side, his taut chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat, which Joan found to be tantalising. "I was practising some single-stick until you returned. Take your time, and let me know when you are ready to leave."

"Sure" she responded, nodding briefly, before walking past him and up the staircase. Sherlock remained on the spot for a moment, turning his head to the side to watch her as she quickly made her way up the stairs. She appeared to be much more awake and alert this morning, which was upheld by the fact that she had been out for a long run. Sherlock nodded in relief at this thought. It was the first time she had been running since the incident with Maria Lennard, and he was glad to find that she appeared to have been getting into her routines once more. Routines and structure were things which, for reasons unbeknownst to him, Joan Watson seemed to thrive on. The fact that she was working within the framework once more was certainly a good sign. Sherlock nodded to himself in satisfaction, before turning on the spot, and practising his single-stick in the kitchen.

Joan walked straight past her bedroom and made a beeline for the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She turned on the spot, checking the lock twice, before trying the door. After the third check, she was satisfied that the door was indeed locked, and that she would not be interrupted by one of Sherlock impromptu attempts at a conversation. Joan undid the jacket from around her waist, before removing the zip-bag and her phone, which she placed on the edge of the sink. After having been for a run, entered the store and bought the test, Joan found that her previous ability to run on autopilot had now deserted her. As she stood in the bathroom and drew the box containing the pregnancy test from the bag, she found herself instantly sobered by the reality of the situation. Joan paled slightly, before easing herself back towards the toilet, and sitting upon it. She remained motionless for a while, simply sitting on the cold seat, and staring at her the light blue box. As she lifted her eyes up, she remembered the last time she found herself sitting, alone and afraid, in this room. It was the night of her date with Jake, when she returned home and shut herself in the bathroom, before attempting to deal with her wounds alone. Before she could finish, Sherlock had announced his suspicions, enticed her to open the door, and helped her with her injuries. She smiled slightly at the memory, before turning her head towards the door, watching it for a few moments. She wondered whether, like that night, he would come to the door then. Whether he would have deduced her fears, her actions of the morning. Whether the scent of her skin, her posture, her body language, or the slip of a receipt from the chemist, would have somehow made Sherlock realise what it was that was occupying the mind of his partner. As these thoughts ran through her mind, Joan's breath caught in her throat at the possibility of such an occurrence. She then found herself wondering whether, if he came up the stairs now, and knocked on the door, spoke to her kindly, and asked to be admitted to the bathroom, if she would allow him to enter. But as she glanced at the door, and observed the silence of the room, she realised that that was not going to happen. Whilst part of her was relieved at this, the fact that she had managed to thus far conceal her concerns from him, and spare him the same worry and fear that she herself was currently experiencing, she could not help but feel that her relief was tinged by a notable degree of guilt and regret.

Joan took a few deep, shaky breaths as she gazed upon the box in her hands, before turning it over and reading the back. She pursed her lips together, before opening the side of the box, and sliding out the instruction leaflet and the test itself. Despite being a former doctor, and having run several dozen such tests on patients over the years, she still read the instructions cover to cover. Perhaps to make sure she didn't make a mistake, or to ensure she reminded herself of the procedure, or even to give herself more time before actually taking the test. Whatever the reason, Joan remained, sitting on the lid of the toilet, reading the instruction pamphlet, as a small and powerful plastic test stared at her from the side of the sink.

Once she had satisfied herself that she had read the pamphlet, which she knew from the outset was unnecessary, she placed the paper back into the box, and reached for the test itself. The small plastic device felt heavy in her hands, and staring at it before her made her once more realise the gravity of the situation, and how very real it was. The cloudiness of her mind, emotions and thoughts all disappeared, and for just a few moments, Joan felt as though all that was in the room with her, including herself, was detached from the reality of the world. It was just her, seclusion, and the test. _Maybe it's not just me_ she thought, as she removed the cap from the end of the test. She breathed in heavily, before following the instructions, replacing the cap on the end of the stick, and putting the test back on the edge of the sink. Joan rose from her sitting position, and found herself feeling shaky and unsteady. She walked over to the sink, picked up the soap, and washed and moisturised her hands thoroughly and with precision, focusing her complete attention on her ministrations.

As Joan rubbed the moisturiser deeper into her smooth hands, she found herself looking into the mirror before her, and staring into the eyes of the reflection glaring back at her. If the result was a positive one, she would allow herself some time to think things over, and then discuss the issue with Sherlock. _He has to know_ she thought, as she stared into the wide and fearful eyes in the mirror, _it has to be as much his decision as it is mine_. Joan swallowed slightly, her hands shaking as she gripped the porcelain sink, before biting lightly upon her lower lip. Despite the fear and the uncertainty, one thing that she was sure of was that, if she was pregnant, she had to tell Sherlock. And, more than that, she wanted to. Although the case was pressing, it was currently at a standstill. They were working tirelessly upon it, and making relatively little headway. As she considered this, Joan found herself wondering whether the current stagnation was a reason to disclose her suspicions, or to delay telling him, for a short time, at least. She turned from the mirror at this point, feeling guilty at the thought of deceiving him. If she was pregnant, he was the father, and she had to tell him. More than that, she _wanted_ to. She had been thinking over the options if the result was positive, considering the positive and negative points for each and, although she knew what she hoped to do, she needed his input. Despite his flaws, his childishness and his denial of his interest in commitment, romantic or otherwise, Sherlock had demonstrated that he was capable of being kind, selfless and dedicated to human beings other than himself. Not that she had ever doubted this, of course. She had always known he was capable of it, and was glad to find that he too was aware of his potential. She smiled slightly at this thought, before picking her phone from her pocket and glancing at the time. It had been almost six minutes since she took the test.

Joan inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she exhaled the breath slowly. With her breath, she also banished her fears, concerns and self-condemnation. For the moment, all that mattered was the five-inch long piece of plastic to her right. Joan lowered her head, before reaching for the test, drawing it close, and holding it beneath her eyes. _Positive, 6 weeks_.

Joan swallowed once more, before feeling her hand begin to shake. She felt flushed and dizzy once more, and incredibly unsteady on her feet. She moved around the sink and back to the toilet, sitting herself down on the lid, as she continued to stare down at the test, her eyes not leaving the words which were staring up at her. As she read them over and over again, she found herself remembering the night she and Sherlock shared together, completely together, six weeks ago. As her mind played over the scene in her head, the kisses, caresses and sensations replaying themselves vividly in her memory, she found herself experiencing a moment of complete calmness. Not because she was relaxed with the result, but because, deep down, she already knew what it would be. She had had almost twelve hours to mentally prepare herself for it, making it seem slightly less daunting, somehow. And yet, as she placed the test back into the box, and zipped it into her bag, the familiar feelings of fear and guilt returned to her with force.

She had considered her options since first realising that she could be pregnant. Although she knew where she stood on each one, she could not accurately predict Sherlock's responses. They had discussed the topics of abortion and adoption in relation to various cases they had worked on, and she found that he was open-minded about them both, and expressed opinions upon them which she felt were considerate and compassionate. They had never discussed his feelings or desires to have children, although the subject was briefly alluded to when Joan pranked him into thinking that Jen was using him to get pregnant. She remembered the look on his face, the fear and disbelief in his eyes, which had caused her to reveal her trickery almost instantly. Whether he had negative feelings towards having children, or having them with Jen, was unclear. But what was clear, and what was certain, was that their romantic relationship had only just begun, and had been, until now, progressing at a steady and manageable pace. As she stood by the sink, her hands resting upon the bag containing a positive pregnancy test, Joan considered how ironic it was that they had both agreed to take it slow, and now they were about to become parents. Or were they? What if he was angry by the news? Or disappointed? Would he blame her, resent her? Would he be open to discuss the issue fully, consider their options, and arrive at a decision? Since first considering the possibility of her pregnancy, Joan knew what she wanted to do if the results were positive.

Joan placed one hand on her forehead, and using her free hand to steady herself against the sink. She remained standing still for a few minutes, allowing herself some time to process the news, and consider her next move, before releasing a deep, long breath. As she did so, Joan lifted her hand from the sink, and rested it upon her lower abdomen, and felt her whole body radiate with warmth as she did so. The comfort she felt at that moment was breathtaking, and almost beyond any type of description. For just a moment, Joan felt incredibly connected to her child, linked to him or her in a strong, unbreakable way. _Unbreakable _she thought, releasing a shaky breath as she considered the word. She looked into the mirror, staring at her reflection once more, before running through the thoughts which had been troubling her recently. As she stood, alone and afraid in the bathroom, she found herself comforted and reassured in the knowledge that she loved her baby, and wanted to keep him or her safe. She had been considering her options over the past few hours, and had been trying to run through a list of positive and negative points for each of the potential choices she had. But somehow, until this very moment, none of her previous thoughts seemed to be 'real'. In hindsight, they seemed to be false, hypothetical, poorly thought out and not backed up by logic or by reason.

The primary issue she was concerned about was telling Sherlock that she was pregnant. Despite the fact that they had discussed a magnitude of issues, with personal ones being discussed more openly since the romantic development of their relationship, they had never discussed children. Joan supposed that Sherlock considered it an unnecessary topic to discuss, as neither of them expected it to happen. She smiled to herself slightly at this thought, and found herself reminded of how many times her patients had said something similar to her when she asked them about the possibility of them being pregnant. She had taken precautions, she reasoned, but they were not as careful as they should have been. As she thought this through, she found her hand tightening slightly across her abdomen. Regardless of the fact that neither of them intended for her to get pregnant, she did not believe her baby was a mistake, and he or she was certainly not unwanted. _Unwanted_. Joan sighed slightly, clutching her abdomen protectively with one hand, as she felt her eyes welling with tears. She rose her hand to cover her mouth as she stifled a sob, before using her other hand to turn on the cold water tap, which flooded the bathroom with noise, drowning out the sound of Joan's cries.

Joan held her hand tightly to her mouth, but it was not enough to suppress her cries. She sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes, a sad, inconsolable, pained cry. What if Sherlock didn't want the baby? What if he resented her, or their child? What if he was angry? Joan squeezed her eyes shut tighter at each painful thought, wrapping her free arm across her abdomen once more, before turning on the spot and gently easing herself into a sitting position upon the lid of the toilet. Usually, she could predict how he would react to certain events or pieces of news, certainly the major ones. She knew how to placate him, how to approach him, how to talk to him calmly and rationally, and how to make him feel comfortably enough to open up to her. But this time was different. This was something new, something unknown, and something very frightening. She had no idea how Sherlock would react to knowing that she was carrying his child, and the prospect of telling him terrified her. She was not afraid that he would hurt her, she knew that he would not, it was not in his character. She was afraid that he would be angry or disappointed, or overwhelmed by the information. Their relationship was so new, and still developing. She had no idea of how such a huge, life-changing factor would influence it. But as she stood alone in the bathroom, listening to the sound of the running water, one thing she could be certain of was the fact that she wanted to continue with the pregnancy, she wanted to keep her child. Their child. But what if Sherlock did not? Would he be willing to discuss the pregnancy with her, discuss how he felt openly, his fears and his concerns, as well as his desires? Or would she be alone?

Joan calmed herself instantly at this thought, wiping her eyes with a cold flannel, before turning off the tap. She bowed her head slightly, clasping her hands in her lap, as she continued to think. Sherlock was not cruel. He was not unreasonable or unkind, nor was he in the habit of abandoning those whose sought his help or advice. When issues had arisen for her in the past, he had always provided her with emotional, physical and even monetary support. He was, without question, one of the kindest, most generous and most capable human beings she had ever had the pleasure of meeting. The past couple of months they had spent together were blissful, and she adored every single moment. But this was, by far, one of the largest challenges that they had faced as partners. _Partners._

The thought of the word 'partners' brought Joan quickly to the second greatest thing she feared in relation to her pregnancy: her job. What she and Sherlock did was dangerous, both physically and emotionally. The hours were long, the days were unstructured and unpredictable, and they frequently found themselves placed in physical (even mortal) danger. How could she bring a baby into that? As she struggled with the question, she also considered whether she would even be able to carry the baby to term, amidst the dangers that they faced. In the past year alone, Joan had been kidnapped, attacked and assaulted. Physically, her body had been through a tremendous ordeal. Emotionally, it had been through more. Would she be able to ensure that her unborn child was protected? And if not, what were her options? Joan closed her eyes in confusion, leaning back and placing her hands on her knees, as she thought through her options. She could take a hiatus, perhaps. Leave her job, leave the city, until the baby was born. But then what? Could she really bring a baby into the chaos and confusion of their careers, of their lives? Even if it were possible, if there were a way, would that be what Sherlock wanted?

Suddenly, Joan began to realise the precarious nature of the situation. Whatever decision she made, they made, the baby's safety and well-being had to be paramount. _But what if Sherlock doesn't want the baby at all?_ She thought, crossing her arms across her chest as she attempted to calm herself. Amongst all the confusion and uncertainty, Joan knew that the only way she would be able to answer any of these questions was to do the thing she was most afraid of doing at this particular moment: she needed to tell Sherlock Holmes that she was carrying his child. She had no idea how he would react, but she hoped that he would sit down with her, that they could talk, discuss the options together, and come up with a solution. As she eased herself into a standing position and began to gather her things, she found herself thinking about the imminent conversation she was about to have with Sherlock, and the possible outcomes it could have. The man in question had a brilliant, remarkable mind, and he was capable of things that neither of them realised was possible. Between them, they would be able to figure this out. It would be alright. It had to be.

Joan gathered her belongings and left the bathroom, looking behind her to make sure that she had not left anything behind. In the twenty minutes that followed, she quickly showered, dressed and applied some make-up, before heading slowly down the stairs, and pausing in the foyer. The sound of the 'thwack' of the single-stick could no longer be heard, but the unmistakable sound of the boiling kettle greeted her. She exhaled deeply, before walking confidently through the rooms, and towards the kitchen, devoting all of her attention to the room which she was walking towards. As she approached the doorway, she saw the familiar figure of Sherlock, who was now fully clothed, preparing four cups of tea. His back was to her, and he was pouring the boiling water as she entered the room. She paused for a moment, watching him as he prepared the drinks, and found herself experiencing familiar feelings of apprehension and fear. But as she watched her partner from across the room, she knew that she needed to tell him. He had to know, to be aware of the situation. She only hoped that he would not resent her or their child for it.

"Ah, Watson you have returned. Excellent" Sherlock called over his shoulder to her, the sound of her heels announcing her entrance. He placed the kettle back on the stove before turning to face her, his features alight with excitement and animation. But as soon as he saw her expression, the unmistakably tear-stained eyes, the nervous countenance, the fear upon her features, his expression changed. His soft eyes widened, and his smile fell immediately. His forehead wrinkled slightly, as he gazed upon his partner with concern. "Watson, what is it?" he asked, his voice low and filled with genuine concern. Joan parted her lips to answer him, but found that no words escaped. She turned her head to the side slightly, unable to meet his gaze, and certain that going so would cause her to cry once more. She did not wish to cry. She wanted to approach the subject confident and with conviction, and make him aware that she valued his input, and held his advice to the highest esteem. But as soon as she had entered the kitchen, and heard the pleasant, genial tone he used with her, her guilt and her fear returned, and she felt instantly overwhelmed. After she did not answer his question after a few seconds, Sherlock took a few brisk steps towards her, pausing once they were only feet apart, and running his eyes across her with concern, before resting his gaze upon her face. "Watson, what's wrong?" he asked kindly, his voice warm and compassionate.

"Sherlock, I-" she began, glancing across the kitchen as she spoke, unable to look at him for fear of breaking down. As she briefly scanned the kitchen, her eyes were drawn to four steaming hot cups on the counter behind them both. She narrowed her eyes in confusion for a moment, before speaking in a low and notably distant tone. "Why are there four cups of-"

"Miss Watson" came a familiar voice from behind Joan, causing her to instantly on the spot, to find herself facing Captain Gregson and Detective Bell. "Sorry for calling so early, your partner explained you'd just returned after your run."

"Right" Joan returned mechanically, nodding as she glanced from Gregson to Bell. "I thought we weren't meeting at the precinct until later. Has something happened?" she asked, her voice returning to normal, as she adopted a calm, composed stand. Gregson watched her for a few moments, before allowing his attention to rest upon Sherlock. Miss Watson seemed fine, but Holmes was looking at her as though she was about to break.

"I'm... we're not interrupting something are we-"

"No" Joan responded immediately, offering Gregson a weak, reassuring smile. "So, how can we help?" Gregson glanced once more from Joan to Sherlock, before placing his hands deep in his pockets, and beginning to speak.

"I got a call this morning from Jonas Livell, Maria Lennard's attorney" Gregson began, watching the concerned Sherlock Holmes as he spoke. "Now, Livell tells me that Lennard wants to be interviewed again, says she has some important information that she wants to disclose, in relation to the case."

"Right" Joan stated after Gregson was quiet for a few moments. "The timing is odd, don't you think? Why now? It can't be to do with Greta Mathers, she didn't tell us anything, and Lennard probably knows that she won't."

"That's what we're thinkin' too" Bell answered. "However, that isn't the only odd thing about Lennard's desire to talk to us."

"What else is there?" Joan asked, her voice lowering slightly with apprehension.

"She says that she has important information pertaining to the case, which needs to be acted upon immediately" Gregson continued, addressing Joan directly as he spoke. "But she says that the only person she will disclose this information with is you."


	27. Chapter 27

***A/N: Hey everyone, sorry this is a little late, I hope you enjoy it. The next chapter will definitely be posted tomorrow morning, and it will be the one in which Sherlock finds out about the baby. Again, any comments/criticisms/advice are greatly appreciated. Thanks, HQ21.

Joan stared at Captain Gregson for a few moments, nodding a few times in acknowledgement, as she processed his words. She could not imagine what Maria Lennard was planning, or why she seemed so interested in talking to herself in particular. But in the few seconds Joan had to process and consider the information, she realised that it certainly constituted progress. If Maria Lennard did disclose some information which would help to clear up the remaining confusion and ensure her conviction, their case would be made. If she simply wished to see Joan, to test how much the police knew, or to torment her in some way, the chances were that she would give something away. She was intelligent, perceptive and highly capable, but she was not invincible. She had made mistakes, including failing to prevent Greta from making the phone call which led to her capture. Therefore, the result of the interview would certainly be in their favour. As Joan considered this, she also realised that if progress was made on the case, it would take a tremendous amount of strain off of Sherlock, which would enable them to have their much-needed discussion. She wanted him to be as ready and as stress-free as possible when she broke the news to him, and she felt that attending an interview with Lennard would be one step closer to achieving that for him. Before Joan could respond to Gregson's statement, the sound of Sherlock's voice from behind her drew her from her thoughts.

"Captain, would you please give Miss Watson and I a moment?" he asked, his voice low and gentle. Joan remained motionless, standing on the spot and averting the gaze of the police officers before her. Gregson glanced from Sherlock to Joan, before nodding in response. He didn't know what was going on, but it was clearly something that they needed to address before they headed to the precinct. Based on Sherlock's demeanour and Joan's notable unease, he and Bell had interrupted them in the middle of some kind of argument or discussion. It was hard to know with these two.

"Sure, we'll be out front" Gregson began, his eyes resting upon the face of Joan Watson, who was attempting to adopt a more confident, composed demeanour. "Take all the time you need." He then turned on the spot and left the room, closely followed by detective Bell, who shot a curious glance at the consulting detectives before departing. Joan stared ahead, fixing her attention on the large window in the room before her, as the sound of the front door slammed shut in the distance.

"Watson" Sherlock breathed, in a smooth tone which was heavy with concern. Joan had never heard him sound so distressed, and found her chest tighten at the sound of his voice. She breathed in, turned on the spot, and turned to face him. Sherlock's eyes were wide and alight, and he was staring at her with a curiously expectant expression, waiting patiently for her to speak. Joan lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, and instantly felt herself feeling flushed and light-headed. And yet, through her concern and her fear, she saw a shining light in the shape of an interrogation room. Securing a confession and making a case for the prosecution would take a tremendous strain off both their lives, and would mean that Sherlock would be better prepared to deal with the news. And perhaps, she pondered, so would she.

"We should head to the precinct" she spoke in a voice slightly quieter than her own.

"Watson..." Sherlock repeated, taking a step towards her and placing his hands at the top of her arms, causing her to lift her eyes to meet his once more, as the comfort of his touch caused her entire body to resonate with warmth. For the first time in the past few days, she felt a glimmer of hope amongst the fear and uncertainty of their present situation. His concern was practically palpable, and it broke her heart to refuse him the details which he clearly wanted, and which she was desperate to give. But she felt that it would be best for him if they waited, just for a little while. She did not want to hurt him. "Watson, I do not wish to pry, and I certainly do not wish to make you feel uncomfortable" he began, in his kindest, warmest tone. "But something is clearly wrong, and I want to help you." It took everything Joan had not to blurt it out then, to whisper the words through a haze of tears, before burying her head in the crook of his neck, and pray that he would tell her that everything would be alright. But she couldn't. She hated feeling this vulnerable, this confused and uncertain of how to act. She usually made decisions which affected her life after careful thought, and felt empowered by doing so. But this was different. Making decisions for herself was one thing, but right now she was making decisions for three, and it was overwhelming.

"I..." she began, her voice cracking as she spoke. Sherlock maintained a reassuring hold upon her arms, and watched her with a look of kindness and warmth as he waited patiently for her to continue. As she looked up into his eyes, and found herself feeling marginally more relaxed and reassured, she almost told him right then. Almost. "It's been an odd couple of days, I... I haven't been-"

"I understand, Watson" he reassured her. "What were you about to tell me when you came into the kitchen?"

"What?" she asked, holding his gaze confidently with her own. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, not moving his eyes from hers, as she continued to speak in the same kind tone which he had been using. It was not interrogative at all, but one filled with compassion and concern. One which Joan was finding it increasingly difficult to resist.

"You were nervous, dejected and clearly frightened" he began, lowering his voice slightly. "And it was clear from your eyes that you had been crying" Joan's eyes fell from Sherlock's for just a moment, before returning to meet his gaze. "What was it that you wished to discuss with me?" he asked gently. Joan opened her mouth to speak, but found herself once more devoid of words. She sighed, and suppressed an awkward laugh, before lifting her eyes confidently to meet his gaze.

"I... it was nothing, I just-"

"My dear Watson" Sherlock interposed, the kindness in his tone drawing her attention back towards his eyes. "It was clearly not nothing. I have never seen you so... so fraught." Joan gave him a reassuring look, before shifting slightly on the spot, causing Sherlock's gentle hold on her arms to weaken.

"It's fine, Sherlock, really" she responded, her voice almost back to normal. "It can wait. This can't." Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, as he ran his gaze analytically across her features, before taking a small step closer to her. Before she could react, she felt his hands run gently own her arms and spread across her back, pulling her into a tender hug. She quivered slightly at the contact, finding herself frozen to the spot, her arms pinned to her sides. She had not expected such a gesture, and had not known Sherlock to make such an unprecedented move before. As she felt his strong arms hold her gently to his chest, she felt more reassured and more adored. She slowly raised her own arms, returning the hug, her forehead pressed lightly to his collar.

"I am not convinced that it can" Sherlock whispered, his breath grazing her ear as he lowered his head to speak. Joan felt herself becoming tearful, and closed her eyes tightly to resist such emotion, pressing her face further into his shirt. The scent of him, as well as his confident and strong hold upon her, gave her the reassurance that she needed. "Watson" he added, his voice low and slightly uncertain, causing Joan to re-open her eyes. "It's going to be alright." Beneath his hold upon her, Sherlock could feel Joan's entire body tense slightly, and so he ran one hand soothingly up her back, before allowing it to rest at the base of her neck. He was not used to comforting people, certainly not physically. He had had several discussions with Watson in which he had attempted to reassure her, mainly when discussing her deceased patient and his son. But somehow, he felt that his words would not have been enough this time. He did not know what possessed him to embrace her so suddenly and without permission, and the act itself felt rather unusual, and very unfamiliar to him. But it felt right, too, and he hoped that Watson would feel comforted by it.

"I know" she mumbled in response, before drawing her face from his body, and looking up towards his eyes. "Thank you." Sherlock nodded in response, before allowing her to untangle herself from his embrace. "We really should be going, you know." He paused for a moment, watching her carefully as she spoke. She appeared to be much more relaxed, her mood was elevated, and she showed no signs of the distress she had displayed just minutes earlier. In fact, she seemed to have improved markedly.

"And you are certain that you feel able to proceed with the interview?"

"Yes" she responded immediately, in a tone of conviction and certainty so strong that she almost believed it herself. "We shouldn't keep them waiting for much longer, you know" she muttered, glancing over her shoulder and towards the door.

"Yes" Sherlock began simply. "Who knows what they might believe we have been upto?" Joan smiled slightly, turning back to face Sherlock with warm, bright eyes.

"Who knows" she repeated, before turning from him and walking briskly towards the foyer. Sherlock watched her for a few moments until, satisfied that she appeared to have temporarily recovered, he followed her. For the entire duration of the journey to the precinct, Joan talked to Gregson and Bell, whilst Sherlock considered her demeanour, her fear, and the frightening expression which she had on her face when she stepped into the kitchen. Joan was always strong, even when she was upset or frightened. The night he saw her after her kidnapping ordeal, and the evening when Mycroft announced his plans to fake his own death, had been the only times which he recalled seeing her resolve begin to fall slightly. But neither of those nights were anything compared to the Joan Watson who had walked into the kitchen, her face grave, her eyes tearful and slightly red, her whole body practically trembling with fear. He had no idea what it could be that would cause her to appear so vulnerable, so fragile. But he wanted to find out. He hoped that Watson would confide in him after the interview, that she would tell him of what it was that had troubled her, as she had been about to in the kitchen. If Gregson's loud, booming voice had not filled the air, he had no doubt that Watson would have confided in him. At this thought, Sherlock cast a baleful look at the driving Captain, who pulled into his familiar parking space outside the precinct.

After a brief de-briefing from Captain Gregson and Detective Bell, Joan walked confidently towards the interview room, casting a reassuring glance back at Sherlock, as she entered it alone. He watched her as she entered, nodding in response to her glance, before following Gregson and Bell to the observation room, where they would watch the interview. As Sherlock took up his seat behind the glass, staring at the back of his partner who was on the other side, he found himself completely unable to shake away the image of her distressed face. He swallowed hard, shifted slightly in his seat, and rested his head upon the top of his knuckles as Joan began to speak.

"Hello, Miss Lennard" Joan began, in a kind yet semi-formal tone. "I was told you had some information that you wished to-"

"Have you ever loved someone?" Maria interjected, her hollow eyes staring at Joan with a haunting look.

"I'm sorry?" Joan responded, watching the young woman before her with caution.

"I can't be much clearer" she returned, in a low, acidic tone which reminded Joan of Greta Mathers. "I asked whether you have ever loved someone."

"Maria" Joan responded in a low yet light tone, as she clasped her hands together and rested them on the desk. "What is it that you wanted to tell me?" Maria watched Joan with hollow eyes and a blank expression, before resting her own hands upon the desk and staring straight at her.

"When we were in the coffee shop" Maria began, glancing down at her hands as she spoke. "The way you talked to me about my break-up, you... you understand" she continued, before lifting her face to reveal tearful eyes.

"What is it you think I understand?" Joan returned, her voice calm and even.

"Love, Miss Watson" she returned instantly, her mouth breaking into a small, frightening smile. "You know what it is like to love someone who doesn't, or can't, love you back." From behind the glass, Sherlock's eyes widened, and he felt his chest tighten. Gregson squinted in confusion at this statement, and Bell stared at Maria with a look between confusion and scepticism. But Sherlock remained, as before, staring at the profile of his partner. Joan tensed slightly, just for a moment, as Maria spoke those words. But as he watched her through the glass and awaited her response, he found himself struggling to understand why. Was that what she was worried about, so upset about? Did she think that he did not love her? He frowned into his knuckles, his eyes narrowing as he discarded this thought. Even if she thought that, which he did not believe that she did, it would still not explain the magnitude of the fear and sadness which was etched upon her features earlier that morning. There was something else. Something bigger. He just couldn't see it. Yet.

"I don't know what you're talking about" Joan returned, her voice calm and even yet slightly lower than before.

"I think you do" Maria responded in a choked voice, her eyes glistening with tears as she nodded towards Joan. "What you... the way you were... how you spoke to me, you... you get it, don't you? You understand."

"You think I understand unrequited love?" Joan asked, her voice remaining calm and kind, without a hint of doubt or scepticism. Maria watched her for a few moments, analysing her statement, before continuing.

"I think you understand how... how people feel when the love isn't returned, and how... how it can drive them into desperation" she stated, lifting her eyes to meet Joan's. And, finally, it clicked. "We're the same."

"We are not the same" Joan responded in a light, gentle tone, wary of the distress Maria was exhibiting. She was clearly incredibly upset, and Joan was genuinely concerned for her well-being. "Maria, sometimes we do love people who don't, or can't, love us back. For whatever reason, whether it be because they don't feel the same, or because they can't" she continued, watching Maria with a kind and compassionate expression. "But it does not give us the right to hurt them, or to hurt anyone else."

"I didn't" Maria responded after a couple seconds of uncomfortable silence. Joan sat completely still for a few moments, staring at Maria with a kind expression, before continuing.

"Yes, you did" she stated. "Maria, you did something terrible, something that you will have to live with, deal with. But we can help you."

"I don't need your help" she spat, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"Then why did you call me here?" Joan asked, her tone remaining low and even. "Why would you want to talk to me if you didn't think I could help you?"

"I wanted to see what it would be like" she responded absent-mindedly, her face tilted to the side. "I wanted to know what I could have been like."

"What?" Joan asked, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion.

"I wanted to know what would have happened if I could have dealt with it, handled the rejection better" she stated, before letting out a small, sinister laugh. "But now I see it, Miss Watson. Really, I do" she continued, staring at Joan with a hard and deeply unsettling expression. "You're hurting too, aren't you?" she continued, suppressing a small laugh. "You feel it, you understand."

"I understand that kind of pain, that kind of hurt" Joan began, her tone altering slightly. "But I do not understand how a person could hurt someone for not loving them back. And I certainly don't understand how that person could act as you did, cause the pain and the hurt and the devastation that you have." She continued, watching the shocked face of Maria from across the table. "So you're wrong. I don't understand."

"We're the same" Maria breathed, smiling at Joan as she spoke. Joan glanced at her for a moment, before standing up abruptly and pushing out her chair.

"No" she responded gently. "No we're not." Joan turned on the spot and walked quickly to the door, opening it gently and closing it firmly behind her, pressing a clammy hand to her damp forehead.

"Are you alright, Miss Watson?" came the familiar voice of Captain Gregson, who was followed by Bell and Sherlock. Sherlock took a step in front of the detectives so he was close to Joan, and his presence reassured her immensely.

"Yeah, fine" she returned, standing confidently before them. "Is that enough to constitute a confession?"

"Possibly" Gregson conceded, glancing towards the door. "It's certainly somethin' that her attorney is gonna be panickin' about."

"I'll say" Bell responded, giving Joan a kind look. "Are you sure you're okay? Cos what she said was-"

"Crap? Yeah, I know. Thanks" Joan responded, giving Bell a small, warm smile. She was grateful for the kindness of her friends, who were clearly eager to reassure her. But one thing she could not deal with, that she was not ready to handle, was the same level of kindness extended from Sherlock. Not because she would reject it, quite the contrary: because she would welcome it. She felt that she had taken enough of his kindness and consideration for one day, which reignited the guilt which was resonating throughout her body. If he said something kind or reassuring to her now, she felt certain that she would burst into tears, and be completely inconsolable. She couldn't do that. Not now. Not to him. "I think I'm gonna go for a walk" she stated simply, drawing her bag to her shoulder, before giving a reassuring look to the others. "You three will be fine without me today, right?" she asked, tiredness lingering in her voice.

"Of course, Watson" came the voice of Sherlock Holmes, who was standing just a few feet from her. He knew how much that interview must have pained her, despite how hard she was trying to hide it. After her distress earlier in the day, as well as this new burden, he felt that her desire to spend some time alone was understandable. It was the way she handled things when they became too much. _It's probably why she went running so early this morning_ he reasoned, as he acknowledged the warm look in her eyes. "We will text you if anything urgent arises" he stated simply, drumming his fingers lightly on the side of his leg. He only wished he could go with her.

"Thanks" she returned, turning on the spot and walking briskly towards the door, exiting the precinct and heading down the street. She breathed out heavily in relief as she left the stifling precinct, filling her lungs with the morning New York air. She walked quickly through the street, navigating the crowds with remarkable accuracy until, twenty minutes later, she reached her destination. The park.

Joan walked slowly into the large, open-area of the park, walking along the path and towards a bench, as the late-autumnal leaves clung to the bottom of her leather shoes. She walked past a couple of dog-walkers, three teenagers who had clearly just skipped school for the first time, and two office-workers who were apparently engaged in an illicit relationship. Joan averted her eyes from the young secretary who was adjusting her blouse, and leaned back onto the bench, crossing her arms comfortingly across her chest, as she processed the events of the past half an hour.

Joan often came here to think. Sometimes, during her jog, she would run to the park, doing several laps, before sitting herself down at her favourite bench and allowing herself to remove herself completely from her own world. There was something reassuring about watching countless other people, strangers who she did not know and would never talk to, walking through the park, going about their days, and probably encountering similar issues to herself. _Perhaps not_ she reasoned, smiling to herself slightly. Joan drew her jacket closer around her, before crossing her arms across her abdomen, the contact of which brought her back to her own reality. During the interview she had, for just a few moments, her attention had been focused entirely upon the nature of her own character. She had not entertained Maria Lennard's statement that they were the same, not even for a moment. She knew it was untrue. She knew that whatever it was between herself and Sherlock, although it was difficult to define, it was _definite_. It was mutual, it was empowering and it was, perhaps, even stronger than love. What had unnerved her, and frightened her, was the thought of the other type of love she was considering. The love a mother had for her child.

As Joan drew her arms tighter across her abdomen, she felt her whole body overcome by the very feelings of fear and doubt which she had been so desperately trying to suppress. She had been so focused on telling Sherlock about the baby, that she had not spent too much time considering the issue of her own parenthood. Joan realised how odd this sounded, how strange it was. Since finding out that she was pregnant, all she knew was that she felt a deep, inexplicable connection to her baby. She wanted to protect him or her, to guard them, to provide the safest and most secure environment in which they could develop and grow, before and after her pregnancy. Despite her fear, the feelings that Joan had for her child were, without a doubt, love. It was the strongest, most unbreakable and empowering feeling that she had ever experienced, and it made her feel indestructible. But as Maria was talking about the reciprocal nature of love, she found herself thinking not of Sherlock, but of her child. Whilst she loved the baby beyond words and description, she wondered whether that was enough. She had spent so much time worrying over how to tell Sherlock that he was going to be a father that she had given fairly little thought to whether she could be a mother. What if she wasn't capable of it? What if she, because of her experiences and her decisions, would be a negative influence on their child?

The thought made Joan feel flushed and nauseous, and she removed her jacket hastily, placing it on the seat beside her, as she allowed the cool morning air to refresh her body. She allowed the air to pass over her flushed skin, revitalising her, as dozens of thoughts clouded her mind at once. She loved her child, she knew that. And she was certain that she loved Sherlock. Or, at least, she felt something equivalent to love, but different to how she felt about the baby. But as she sat on the bench, inhaling the scent of the nearby plants and the freshly cut grass, she found herself wondering whether that was enough. Was loving her baby reason enough for her to become a mother? Was it the right thing to do for the baby? As she sat wondering this, she found her thoughts drifting back to Sherlock, to their work, the danger they were constantly in. Even if he wanted the child, how would they keep him or her safe? Was love enough? Joan felt overwhelmed once more at her inability to think. She was becoming frustrated at the fact that, unlike many other decisions regarding her life, this one was so multi-faceted and so frightening. Whatever avenue she went down, whatever option she considered, she found herself facing a tall, immovable wall which stood between her and her baby. As she re-evaluated the situation, and ran through the possibilities in her mind, she found that one word kept coming up. One word was drifting through her mind, and imprinting itself firmly in brightly lit letters upon the walls which were constructed. Adoption.

Joan swallowed hard, turning her head to the side and exhaling heavily as she ran the word over in her mind. Was it what she wanted? No. She wanted to be with her baby, that much she knew. That was all she knew. In moments of fear and panic, of worrying that Sherlock would reject the situation and their child, she found herself feeling head-strong and determined that she would take care of the baby. If he did not feel able to help her, she would do it by herself. She felt both frightened and empowered by this thought, knowing that she had another option if Sherlock could not deal with the situation. But, unlike before, she now found herself doubting even that decision. Would it be the best thing for the baby? Would _she _be the best thing for the baby? Before she could consider her thoughts any further, she felt her phone buzzing against her thigh. She blinked herself out of her reverie, before extracting the phone and glancing at the screen. She was shocked when, after having glanced at the time, she realised that almost four hours had passed, and it was currently almost 3pm. She blinked away her confusion, before unlocking the phone and staring at the screen, finding that her heart stopped beating as she saw the small message in the centre. It was from Sherlock.

The message read: 'Wtsn, eth is fine. Wld lk 2 tk u smwhr I thnk ul njy. Pls cm bk epc. SH'. Joan squinted at the message, narrowing her eyes in confusion as she attempted to decipher it. Sherlock was clearly inviting her to some kind of event, but he did not specify what. The only part of the message she did not understand was the final abbreviation, 'ebc'. Joan rose from the bench, walked from the park and hailed a cab, which brought her to the doors of the brownstone less than fifteen minutes later. As she stepped through the doors and into the living area, she found Sherlock reading a book in his favourite chair. She gave him a confused look, before raising her phone in the air and preparing herself to speak.

"At 'epc'?" she asked. "What does that mean?"

"Earliest possible convenience" Sherlock answered genially, offering her a small smile, as he practically lept out of his seat. Joan nodded in understanding.

"Ah, yes, of course" she responded with levity, turning to face him as he approached her. Sherlock reached into the cover of the book he was holding and passed her a small leaflet, which she scanned with interest, having recognised it immediately.

"The gallery on the upper-west side is having an exhibition of some of the most famous eighteenth and nineteenth-century European oil paintings in the world this weekend" she stated, running her eyes across the leaflet. "I remember reading an article on it online."

"So do I" Sherlock responded, his tone low and kind. "As it happens, the gallery is opening tonight, for some of the city's richest and most elite."

"Right" Joan answered, lifting her eye from the leaflet and handing it back to him. "And what? You wanna gate-crash the rich men's party?"

"No, Watson" he stated, pulling two tickets from the back of his book. "I want to join it" he stated, watching with interest as Joan's eyes widened slightly at the big reveal. "The party, not the social parasites."

"I see" Joan responded, nodding towards the tickets. "I tried to order some of those weeks ago, I thought we could go together, but they sold out in seconds. How did you get those?"

"Well, for all sold-out tickets there are some which are _sold_, Watson" he stated amiably, surveying Joan's features and feeling relieved that she appeared to be feeling slightly less distressed. "Although, this particular pair were a gift from a former client, whose wife's indiscretions threatened to cause him the utmost embarrassment."

"I don't even wanna know-"

"No, no you don't" Sherlock responded in a low, absent tone, his nose wrinkling as he considered the size of the metaphorical hole which he had dug this particular client out of. "Anyway, the opening begins in just over an hour and so, if you are feeling up to it, would you like to attend it with me this evening?" He asked kindly, his voice quivering slightly with apprehension as he extended the invitation. He knew that she seemed upset and felt unable to confide in him at the moment. But he wished to organise something relaxing for her, where she did not need to worry herself, or feel afraid. He wanted her to be able to have some peace from whatever burden it was that she was insisting on carrying alone, even if it were for just one night.

"Sure" she returned instantly, nodding gratefully at Sherlock as she spoke. Grateful for both the invitation, for what she knew to be the reason behind it, and for the fact that she had not pressed that matter further. Despite her concerns and her worry, as well as the soul-searching she had undertaken in the park, she felt sure that removing herself emotionally from her fears for just the one evening would enable her to approach the issue with a fresher perspective. And, after Maria unquestionably revealed at least part of her guilt in the interview room, perhaps the case would be wrapped up soon, and she and Sherlock could talk. Perhaps.

Less than an hour later, an elegant Joan Watson and bespoke-suit-dressed Sherlock Holmes were walking arm in arm through the elegant gallery, admiring the paintings which hung imposingly upon the walls. They spent over two hours discussing the first wall of images, laughing to themselves and having a wonderful time, detached from all aspects of their current lives. Joan felt that she was in an inspiration-filled bubble, surrounded by talent and by beauty, as she admired each painting in turn. Although she was having a wonderful time, she felt oddly detached from the event itself, and from her current position within it. Although she promised herself that she would allow herself one evening where she would not worry about the things she could not deal with immediately, her concerns about the baby were unable to be quelled, even temporarily. The reality of this situation hit her at full force when she approached a painting at the end of the second wall, which was created at the end of the eighteenth century by a little-known Italian painter.

The picture was of a trio of young children, who Joan believed were between the ages of two and five, playing together by the side of a river. There was a bridge which went over the river, linked to a small village, and surrounded by fields of corn and tall grass. The picture was idyllic, serene, and depicted a much happier more innocent time, where the children played side by side, all day long. Even though the painting was over two hundred years old, and the children were not particularly big, it was clear that they were happy. As Joan smiled warmly to herself, she felt her stomach tighten slightly with fear, as a question played on her mind. Before she could think, or stop herself from doing so, she uttered her question, which she regretted as soon as the words had left her lips.

"They look happy here, don't they?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, his eyes drifting from side to side, as he analysed the picture with an expert eye. Despite having regretted asking her question, Joan knew that it was too late to turn back now. She had to press on, otherwise he would become suspicious. She just had to be careful.

"The children" she stated, nodding casually towards the image. Sherlock nodded in agreement, scanning the painting as Joan watched him with an eager anticipation, before continuing to speak.

"What do you think about it?" she asked in the same non-committal, casual tone. Sherlock did not seem suspicious of her question, but simply continued to view the image before them, nodding at it approvingly.

"It is a pleasant piece" he stated slowly, nodding as he spoke, his eyes not leaving the painting. "The colour of the water seems slightly off, though. It would not be quite such a vibrant shade of blue. Nor would the tall tree to the right have-"

"I didn't mean the colour or the composition" Joan stated genially, her voice calm and level, as Sherlock turned to face her. "I just... do you think it's possible to see that they're happy, to know they were happy, even if it isn't clear?" she asked conversationally, as Sherlock watched her with interest. He seemed to be confused by her question, which amused her slightly. After a few seconds of thought, he turned back to the painting, responding to her question as he stared at it.

"I believe you need more than one image to accurately assess whether a person is happy" Sherlock stated, as he ran his eyes across the image. "I think that we often want to see happiness in paintings like these. In situations where we see young children especially, we often seek to assure ourselves that they were happy, that they were content, that they were looked after" he continued, as Joan nodded in agreement, attempting to conceal the growing concern which she was experiencing. Had she said too much? "But I also think it is important to realise that these children may not have been happy. They may have been orphaned, had cruel or inadequate parents, or been mistreated in some way. Who knows the pain and the misery behind the masks these children wore during the painting" he continued, causing Joan to swallow hard. He was answering her question a little too much, she thought. And perhaps he was right. "But, at least the little darlings are not tormenting their elders or setting fire to famous landmarks" he added genially, smiling lightly at Joan, who returned it. He then walked past her and towards the next painting, which seemed to interest him greatly, as Joan case one final forlorn glance towards the image before her. Perhaps she had fewer options than she thought.


	28. Chapter 28

Joan ran over the conversation she had with Sherlock in her mind several times, analysing and over-analysing it, trying desperately to garner as much information as she could from it. Over the next couple of weeks, she continued to keep the news of her pregnancy to herself, feeling unable to tell him due to their workload, as well as her fears and uncertainty regarding his reaction. During this time, Joan made an appointment to see her OBGYN Dr Amelia Forrester, a friend from Med school, who she associated with socially. Dr Forrester confirmed what Joan already knew to be true, ran a series of tests which all came back as normal, and gave her an ultrasound. The connection Joan felt with her child was taken to an even deeper level as she saw the grainy image of her baby flickering in black and white on the screen. Amelia printed her off an image, which Joan kept close, retreating to her room and admiring the image when she found herself feeling frightened or doubtful. The image reassured her quickly.

The next two weeks passed quickly, with the consulting detectives working tirelessly with the police in order to build a strong case against Maria Lennard. In subsequent interviews, she had slipped up on multiple occasions, revealing some information about the victims or about the crime scenes which she could not have possibly known. As well as this, two of her five alibis were proven to be false, and the remaining three could not be confirmed. Based on this evidence, just over two weeks since the interview with Joan Watson, the DA agreed that there was enough evidence to prosecute Maria Lennard. After this was decided, Joan called Greta Mathers to inform her of the development, and to encourage her to come in and make a statement, revealing the truth of their relationship. She informed Mrs Mathers that Lennard was going to be prosecuted, and that her statement would strengthen the case, increasing the chances of her conviction. Joan knew that she was asking a lot of the woman, who had been through a terrific ordeal. But by telling the truth, she could help secure the conviction of a woman who had destroyed the lives of several innocent women, casting a dark shadow across their families. She felt guilty before and during the phone call, in which she was both polite and compassionate, assuring Greta that they would do everything they could to protect her privacy, but expressing the importance of total disclosure.

An hour after the phone call, Greta Mathers walked confidently into the precinct, making straight for Gregson's office, where the Captain was discussing some of the issues in relation to the case with Sherlock and Joan. The door was thrown open and the tall, confident figure of Greta Mathers stood imposingly in the doorway, glancing at each of the people in turn, before stepping into the room and closing the door firmly shut behind her.

"Miss Watson" she stated simply, in her usual low, authoritative tone. "I have come to make a statement." Joan slowly stood up from her place on the couch, staring at the woman before her in disbelief. Before she could speak, Joan felt herself feeling suddenly dizzy and unsteady on her feet, which she covered well, taking in a deep breath and steadying herself.

"Thank you, Mrs Mathers" she began in a kind, empathetic tone. "What made you-"

"My husband" she stated simply.

"You... you told your husband?" Joan asked.

"God no" she spat, scoffing as she crossed her arms. "If I keep refusing to assist you, he will grow suspicious. Now, I realise that this case is high-profile, the media are all over it. I also understand that this... this woman has already made references to the nature of our relationship. Therefore, I will provide you with a written statement confirming it, providing that you do everything you can to ensure that the information does not make the press."

"Mrs Mathers, with all due respect" Gregson began, pushing himself away from his desk. "We can't make that kind of promise. We'll be discreet, of course. But even if you don't make the statement, it's likely that Miss Lennard will reveal the nature of your relationship in her own testimony. And what I can do, what I will do, is arrange for a hearing to discuss preventing the media and the press from being present during the trial. Now, if the court agrees to this, everything about the case will remain in the court room, away from the media."

"You can do that?" she asked, her eyes widening slightly at the possibility.

"I can try" he stated confidently. "It has been done before. Especially in cases of this magnitude. I'll petition a judge and arrange for the hearing to take place as soon as possible, alright?"

"Yes, yes thank you" she returned, attempting to conceal her happiness. She wore a strong, resolute expression which she was determined not to allow to crack. "So, what happens now?"

"If you'll come with me, ma'am, I'll take your statement. We'll be as quick and as discreet as possible, alright?" Gregson stated kindly, taking a few steps towards her. Mrs Mathers nodded in response, before turning sharply on the spot and leaving the room, her expensive silk scarf dancing in her wake.

"Well" Joan stated after a few moments. "I did not expect that." Sherlock stared at the doorway for a few moments, his wide eyes unblinking, as he considered the past few minutes.

"It was the only way she could ensure that her secret remained secret. It is amazing what lengths people will go to do so" he said, before continuing to leaf through the file on his lap, reviewing the transcripts from the most recent interviews with Maria Lennard. Joan swallowed, before walking back towards the couch and sitting back in her spot. Her head was still spinning and she felt slightly shaky, causing her to pull her jacket closer to her. As she allowed her mind to drift from her feelings of unwell-ness, she found herself thinking of Sherlock's words.

"It's understandable though" she stated, crossing her arms as she spoke. "I mean, people keep secrets for lots of reasons, don't they? Some of them selfish, some of them more complex." Sherlock glanced up at Joan from his file, and watched her for a few seconds, a quizzical look upon his face. Joan looked up at him, meeting his gaze, before continuing to speak. "I am well aware that she is concealing this for her own benefit, not for her husband. She wants to avoid a messy divorce and the scandal which would result from the revelation that she had an affair with an employee, certainly one who went on to take the lives of several women."

"Yes, Watson" Sherlock responded, returning his attention to his files. "In her case, keeping her own indiscretion a secret is purely for her own benefit."

"Would it be different if it wasn't?" Joan asked casually, as she too reached for a file and began to sift through it, trying to do anything which would distract her from how unwell she was feeling. "I mean, if a wife keeps a secret to protect her husband?"

"I suppose that would depend on the secret" Sherlock responded, his attention still devoted to the files. He paused for a moment, placing the sheet of paper back in its place, before looking up towards Joan, who was examining a picture from the last crime scene. He was about to pose a question when his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his phone buzzing in his breast pocket. He sighed slightly, pressing his lips together in annoyance, as he extracted the phone and answered the call. Joan turned towards him as his voice became pleasant and satisfied, before he hung up the phone and replaced it.

"We've been here for over eight hours, Watson" he stated. "The files can wait until tomorrow. Shall we go home?"

"You never want to go home early" Joan returned tiredly, closing her file and turning to face Sherlock with an interrogatory expression. "Is everything okay?"

"Perfectly" he responded, standing up and putting on his coat. "But we have been confined to this precinct for too long already, and the familiar setting of the brownstone will be much more conducive to deduction." He began, as he reached for her coat, and walked across the room to assist her with it. "Besides, you seem rather tired this evening, Watson. And you have become rather pale, possibly because you are low on sustenance" he continued as he assisted her with her coat, concern entering his tone.

"Thanks" she responded lightly, doing up her coat and turning to face him. "So your eagerness to leave has nothing to do with the phone call you just received?" Sherlock watched her with a blank expression for a few seconds, before nodding a couple of times and indicating towards the door.

"We will soon find out, Watson" he responded, opening the door to allow her to pass through. Joan accepted, strolling casually through the precinct and towards the taxis outside, before travelling back to their home. As she leaned back in the seat, she fought to keep herself awake. She knew that feeling such waves of exhaustion was to be expected, but had not realised that they would be so strong. She was feeling light-headed and slightly shaky too, which she suspected was, as Sherlock stated, due to the fact that she had not eaten since the night before. It was almost five o'clock in the evening now, and Joan mentally remonstrated herself for having been so neglectful. As they pulled up outside the brownstone, images of food flooded into her mind, but she did not feel the slightest inclination to eat. In fact, the thought of consuming anything caused familiar feelings of nausea to return to her, which she fought as she walked up the stairs and towards the brownstone.

Upon arriving inside, Sherlock threw his scarf upon the coat rack and bounded into the front room like an excited puppy, causing Joan to forget her temporary concerns and smile to herself as she removed her own coat and hung it up beside his abandoned scarf. She took a step towards the living room before stopping immediately, releasing a long, shaky breath as she closed her eyes and attempted to re-establish her balance. She wasn't feeling at all well, which she suspected was due to their heavy workload and her lack of eating over the past couple of days. _Well, as we're back, I'm sure Sherlock will want to order take-out_ she thought, as she walked slowly towards the living room, where her partner was standing. Sherlock was stood before the arm chair, his back to her, drumming his fingers on his thighs. He turned to face her as soon as he heard her enter the room, and met her arrival with a nervous, impish smile, which made Joan instantly suspicious.

"What?" she asked, caution clear in her tone.

"Well, I-" Sherlock began, his voice adopting a humble, slightly nervous tone. "I reached out to an associate of mine who had something in his possession that I believe you would like. I discussed the matter with him, and made the necessary arrangements. He has delivered the item in question to us this very evening." Sherlock paused for a moment, watching Joan with a wide-eyed stare.

"The phone call" Joan stated in a low voice. "Sherlock, you don't have to-"

"I know, Watson" he interposed. "But I wanted to. It is not something which I do lightly or without... without reason." He stated, before moving to the right and revealing a rectangular object wrapped in brown packing paper, and secured with string. "Please allow me to give you this gift, Watson. A small token of my thanks." Joan's eyes glistened as he spoke, and a small, grateful smile played on her lips.

"Sherlock you have nothing to thank me for" she responded kindly, taking a couple of steps towards him.

"On the contrary, Watson" he stated kindly, in a low, soft tone. Joan watched him for a few moments, before turning her attention to the object before her. Sherlock nodded encouragingly, taking a few steps back as she moved closer to it, and began to undo the string and remove the wrapping paper. Watching her do so reminded him of when she first opened the chest containing his unsolved cases, which filled him with a sense of pride and fulfilment. But this was a very different type of gift, and one which he hoped she would enjoy.

As Joan pulled the paper from the object, she gasped slightly, plucking the item from its packaging and lifting it up. It was the painting of the three children that she saw at the gallery a couple of weeks ago.

"That night at the gallery" Sherlock began, the sound of his voice drawing Joan from her reverie. "You seemed to be particularly drawn to this painting, so-"

"Sherlock, I... it's beautiful, and I, I'm so grateful but" she began, before placing the painting back upon the armchair, ensuring that the back of the seat held it securely in place. "I can't accept this, it must have cost you a fortune."

"I assure you, Watson, it did not" he responded. "Besides, the price is of no consequence. You know my feelings on money." Joan turned to face him, her eyes bright and soft, as she watched him with a grateful expression.

"Thank you" she whispered, smiling slightly as she spoke. Sherlock's entire body seemed to relax slightly at her words, which relieved her greatly. He always became nervous when expressing gratitude, or committing acts of kindness. He did not believe himself capable of them, and it caused him some concern when others saw him committing them. But Joan had seemed so engaged with the image, so completely enraptured by it, that he felt it were an appropriate gift for her. As he watched the expression of sincere gratitude on her face, he found himself feeling nervous, and uncertain of how to respond exactly. He hoped that she would appreciate the sentiment, but she appeared to be more grateful and more touched than he could have anticipated. This did not surprise him greatly, as Joan Watson was the one person who he could never completely understand. He nodded a couple of times, feeling slightly embarrassed, before leaning back on his heels.

"I must check the bees, I fear I have been neglecting my charges" he stated amiably, smiling as he spoke. "I will be back shortly". Joan nodded in understanding, watching as her partner quickly descended the stairs, and headed for the roof. She smiled lightly to herself, before turning back to face the painting, which was standing proudly against the armchair.

Joan took a few steps towards the painting, before feeling herself overcome by a powerful wave of dizziness. She stood completely still, attempting to steady her breathing as her whole body felt unstable, shaky. She rose one hand to her forehead, closing her eyes tightly against her palm as she battled the dizziness, as the sound of her heavy breathing became audible. After a few seconds, Joan found that her dizziness and shakiness had still not abated, which was unusual for her. As she took in another deep breath, she found it cut short by a sharp pain in her abdomen, which caused her to wrap her right arm protectively across her stomach as she let out a small, stifled cry of pain. Joan remained perfectly still for a moment, before the sharp pain returned, causing her to stifle another pained cry, as she brought her other arm to her abdomen. She felt her whole body shake once more, as she felt flushed and unsteady on her feet. As the sound of her frightened breathing filled the air, Joan felt herself swaying slightly, before she faltered slightly, her eyes closing as she lost consciousness, before falling to the ground. Joan landed on her right side, her legs drawn together, her left arm wrapped across her abdomen. She remained, unconscious and alone, lying upon the cold floor for several minutes, until heavy and excited footsteps upon the stairs announced the return of Sherlock. Joan was completely unaware of this, of course. She was unaware of everything at that particular time, having lost her battle to stay awake.

"The _Euglasia Watsonia_ have been producing an incredible amount of honey, Watson" Sherlock stated merrily as he spring from the final step of the staircase, and began walking through the foyer and towards the living area. He had just collected a full jar full of the golden liquid, which he was turning over in his hands as he continued to talk. "I don't suppose you would care to-" Sherlock looked up from the jar of honey which he was holding, and stood completely frozen to the spot, as he glanced upon the unconscious figure of his partner upon the floor. He felt as though a heavy weight had been dropped onto his chest, and was crushing him from the inside, preventing him from moving, breathing, thinking, even. But after less than a moment, Sherlock blinked away the shock and the confusion, as the sound of the honey jar falling from his hand and shattering upon the ground drew him out of his stupor.

"Watson!" he breathed urgently, rushing to her side. Sherlock ran to Joan, bending down beside her, running his eyes across her fallen body. He glanced at her position, lying on her side, one arm draped across her abdomen, her eyes closed firmly shut. "Watson!" he repeated, a sense of urgency entering his tone, as he felt himself begin to panic. He exhaled sharply, before placing one hand on Joan's warm neck. Her pulse was low and barely calculable, and she felt shaky and clammy to the touch. He placed one hand upon her side and gently turned her onto her back, running his eyes across her body and searching for any signs of injury or distress. He found none. He would have considered it possible that she fainted, had it not been for the fact that her pulse was extremely low, she was completely unresponsive, and she appeared to be burning up. Her whole body was shaking too, and something about the entire situation unsettled him, and told him that something was very, very wrong. "Watson, can you hear me?" he stated, attempting to conceal the panic and fear which was flooding his tone. He placed his hands by her shoulders and called her name a couple of times, before taking her pulse once more and staring at her small figure. Something was wrong.

"Alright" he said breathlessly, as he leaned over Joan and pulled her gently towards him, holding her securely, as he lifted her from the ground. "It's alright, Watson. It's alright" he repeated, as he drew her small body close to his own, her head resting by his shoulder blade as her legs draped across his arm. Sherlock walked quickly through the room and towards the foyer, grabbing Joan's car keys from the table by the door, before walking briskly out onto the street and heading straight for her car.

The evening was growing dark, and there were very few people on the street. Not that Sherlock noticed them, really. He carried his unconscious partner straight to her car, unlocking it from the bottom step, before opening the back door and laying her carefully across the back seat. She showed no signs of returning to consciousness, and had remained completely unresponsive. As he closed the door behind her and rushed to the driver's seat, he remembered how she was shaking in his arms, and how he wished he knew how to comfort her. Sherlock breathed in heavily as he started the engine, driving straight for the hospital, knowing that she clearly needed medical attention. He knew she was tired, and had not been eating well, but they had both been through periods like that before, none of which had caused her to faint. As he drove into the hospital car park, slamming the brakes on by the drop-off section, he found himself overcome by sheer terror. Whatever was wrong with Watson, it was more than just a fainting episode. Was she unwell? Was that what she had been concealing? He banished these thoughts from his mind, as he undid his seatbelt and rushed to the back seat, gathering the still-unconscious Joan up in his arms and carrying her through the entrance of the ER. She felt weak and fragile in his arms, her frail body becoming pale and cool, as she continued to be unresponsive to the sound of his voice. As he walked into the reception area, he called her names several times, before carrying her straight over to the desk, where a wide-eyed receptionist stared at him, before gesturing to a white-coated man who was standing behind her.

"She needs urgent medical attention" Sherlock stated authoritatively, as the doctor turned to face him. The tall, older gentleman with a white beard nodded in understanding, summoning a porter as he rushed around the desk, and placed a hand upon Joan's clammy forehead.

"What's her name?" he asked, studying the collapsed woman.

"Joan Watson" Sherlock returned breathlessly, holding her protectively.

"What happened? How long has she been like this?" the doctor asked hurriedly, as he took her pulse and called once more for the porters, who brought a gurney straight to them. Sherlock turned on the spot and gently lowered Joan down onto the gurney, her weak limbs falling to the side as she lay upon the pillow, her eyes remaining closed.

"She... I found her collapsed about fifteen minutes ago" Sherlock began, as the doctor ushered him and the porters into a large room at the back of the hospital, calling for two nurses who were standing by to assist. "She just... she must have collapsed... I found her unconscious, she... she was warm, shaking and unresponsive, and her pulse was incredibly low-"

"Alright, it's okay" the kindly doctor said, as Joan was wheeled into the room, closely followed by Sherlock. "We're gonna do everything we can, alright? Now, does she have any medical issues I need to be aware of? Any complaints of illness lately?" Sherlock hesitated, the confusion of the situation making him feeling afraid and uncertain, causing him to struggle to respond.

"No, but I... something is wrong" he stated, as the nurses began to unbutton Joan's blouse and lower the gurney so she was lying flat.

"Has she got a history of fainting? Seizures? Drug or alcohol abuse?"

"No, no, no, look, help her, will you?" Sherlock asked, urgency entering his tone, as he stared past the doctor and tried to catch a glimpse of Joan, who was lying motionless on the bed, her arm falling lifelessly over the edge.

"We are" he responded kindly, in a paternal manner which was aimed at soothing frightened relatives. But he could tell that he would have to try much harder with this guy. Sherlock nodded at him, before taking a few steps forward and attempting to approach Joan.

"Sir, please, it is best if you wait here and-"

"I am not leaving her" Sherlock stated resolutely, his eyes burning with emotion as he stared at the doctor before him. He breathed in shakily and ran his hand across his face, before looking up at the doctor with a remorseful expression. The situation was overwhelming and incredibly confusing. He was incredibly worried about Watson, it was not like her to become ill, and seeing her so weak and vulnerable terrified him, especially when he did not understand what was happening. "Forgive me, but-"

"Doctor!" Came the voice of one of the young nurses, who was standing by the foot of the bed, blocking the view of Joan. "She's bleeding!" The doctor turned on the spot and rushed to Joan's bedside, closely followed by Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"Bleeding?" Sherlock asked, his mind ablaze, as he considered Joan's symptoms and her body. "She had no cuts she, she didn't..." he paused for a moment, standing slightly behind the doctor, who was blocking the view of his partner. The doctor stood at the bottom of the bed and exchanged a few words with the nurse, who began to remove Joan's shoes and 's eyes widened and his whole body clenched with fear, as he considered the sight before him. Joan's fear over the past few weeks, her tiredness, her sadness, her attempts to talk to him about something she was worried about. And now this, her state of collapse, and the word. Bleeding.

"Where is she bleeding from?" Sherlock asked in a low, hollow tone as he found himself frozen to the spot, his whole body unable to move. The doctor turned on the spot and took a step towards Sherlock, blocking his view of Joan, as the nurses began to adjust her legs on the bed.

"Sir, please, I think you need to wait out-"

"Joan" Sherlock breathed, rushing past the doctor and standing by his partner's side. He lifted her fallen arm and held her hand tightly, before running his fingers lightly across her cheek, and calling her by her first name once more. "Joan" he mumbled, breathing out heavily, and feeling his whole body begin to shake. He glanced down the bed to find the nurses and the doctor attempting to reduce the bleeding, which Sherlock could see was fairly considerable. His eyes widened at the sight, fear and panic gripping him, as he continued to hold Joan's hand tightly, whispering to her reassuringly. Sherlock turned his head back towards Joan, and cupping her cheek comfortingly with his hand. He felt her shake slightly, her whole body trembling, as she rose slightly from the bed, and her eyes began to open slowly, and he found himself staring down at her panicked, frightened expression.

"Sherlock-" she muttered, before closing her eyes once more, and falling back onto the bed.


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock stood motionless for a moment, staring at Joan's pale face and closed eyes as she fell back into unconsciousness. He called her name a couple of times, tugging her hand gently as he spoke, hoping to illicit a reaction from her. Sherlock's curious eyes darted across her face and body, searching for any signs of awareness or consciousness, but he found none. As he look down upon her small and fragile figure, he felt an overwhelming feeling of panic and fear, which struck him with an almost physical force. He was unable to speak or to act, and simply remained staring down at the unconscious Joan, staring at her resolutely and hoping she would awaken, as the voices of the doctor and two nurses mingled in the background, eventually drawing him back into the present situation.

The doctor had summoned a colleague, a senior OBGYN, who removed his stethoscope from his neck as he rushed into the room, the doors closing quickly behind him. He adjusted his glasses as he spoke with the older doctor, nodding in understanding, before glancing at Joan and nodding at the words of the first doctor. By this time, the nurses had removed all of Joan's clothing from the waist down, and had draped a thin white-sheet across her propped-up legs, in an attempt to give her some privacy and shield the agitated Sherlock from the seriousness of her condition. At that moment, the first doctor returned to Joan, continuing with his examination as the nurses inserted an intravenous drip into her hand.

"Sir" the second doctor called, walking over to Sherlock as he spoke. Sherlock tightened his grip on Joan's hand as he turned to face the doctor, who was facing him with a calm, composed expression. "Sir, I'm Dr Adams, I'm a senior OBGYN, and I'm here to help Miss Watson, alright?"

"Yes" Sherlock breathed, his voice hoarse and croaky. He turned his head to the side slightly, as if to shake himself out of his stupor, before turning back to the doctor and speaking in a quieter version of his usual voice. "Why is she bleeding?" he asked simply as he looked towards the doctor, his bright eyes widening in apprehension. He knew the answer already. Some of it, at least. The evidence seemed pretty conclusive. But something was very, very wrong.

The doctor held Sherlock's gaze for a moment, before realising that the man before him clearly knew very little of the woman's condition. Judging by the way he was acting, the agitation as well as the comfort he was giving her, he was her boyfriend. And yet, she had not told him. For a moment, he found himself wondering why, until the penetrating glare of the man before him drew him back to reality.

"From Dr Harlow's initial examination, we discovered that Miss Watson is in the early stages of pregnancy, no more than eight weeks" he began, lowering his voice and speaking in a calm, matter-of-fact manner. Sherlock inhaled sharply, finding that his breath remained in his throat, as his chest tightened slightly with the words. He had already deduced her condition a couple of minutes before, but hearing it spoken to him, by a medical professional, somehow had a greater effect upon him than his own inner thoughts.

"Is she alright?" he responded, his voice lower and slightly shaky. The side of the doctor's mouth lifted slightly into a small, sympathetic smile, as he nodded slowly in response to Sherlock's question, watching as the man's alert eyes darted across him curiously.

"Shortly after she was admitted, Miss Watson began haemorrhaging. She lost a fairly considerable amount of blood, but Dr Harlow was able to reduce it" he paused for a moment, watching Sherlock's face as he nodded quickly in response, before looking at the doctor expectantly. "Miss Watson is still bleeding, but it is under control, and has almost stopped. Her BP is rising slightly, and her heart rate has stabilised." Sherlock nodded in response, turning to face Joan as he considered the words of the doctor. As soon as he saw her small, broken body lying helplessly upon the bed, his previous relief at knowing she was going to be alright began to falter. She was so pale, unresponsive, and felt cool to the touch. He had never seen her looking so vulnerable before, so much in need of assistance. She was the one who did the comforting, the caring, the looking after. Joan was the one who reassured everyone when someone was hurt, or when something went wrong. Looking down upon her now, he found himself wishing that she would open her eyes again, speak to him. Not to reassure him she was alright, but to demonstrate it. Sherlock nodded absently as he glanced upon her, before turning back to the doctor and inhaling slowly, and speaking in a low, uncertain voice.

"And..." he began, swallowing hard as he struggled to form the sentence. "And the... the baby?" he choked, raising his wide, frightened eyes to meet the doctor's. The doctor parted his lips slightly, turning towards the other doctor for a moment, before facing Sherlock with a look of empathy.

"It's too early to tell" he stated in a low, respectful tone. "Miss Watson has lost a considerable amount of blood, and our priority has been stabilising her" he explained, gesturing with his hands as he spoke, and speaking in a slow, simple manner which, in his emotionally fraught state, Sherlock found to be slightly condescending. As the doctor's words of uncertainty sunk in, Sherlock found panic rising in him once more, and he glanced past the doctor and towards the sheet covering Joan's legs, which shielded the first doctor's medical attempts from him. Despite this, he had caught a glimpse of the extent of the bleeding a few minutes before. Just before the nurse placed the sheet over Joan's legs, Sherlock saw the blood which had covered her thighs and the bed, and was continuing. He knew that some bleeding was common in the early stages of pregnancy, but not like this.

"I... I would like you to find out" Sherlock stated in a low and sombre tone, in a calm yet resolute manner. The doctor nodded immediately to Sherlock's request, grateful that he had responded. He couldn't imagine how traumatic this must be for him. He was married himself, and if his wife were admitted in such a serious medical state, he had no idea how he would react. The fact that he didn't know she was pregnant must have made this situation even harder for the guy.

"Miss Watson's bleeding has almost stopped, and one of the nurses has just gone to get a doppler from Maternity. As soon as it's here, we'll check for a heartbeat" the doctor spoke in a calm, soothing tone. "But I have to warn you, that... because of the extent of the blood loss, it... it's important that you prepare yourself for-"

"I understand, thank you" Sherlock responded in a low, calm tone, cutting the doctor off before he finished his statement. Sensing the man's need to be alone for a few minutes, to process what was going on, the doctor nodded in understanding, before turning from the spot and assisting Dr Harlow.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the spot, his whole body feeling numb and shaky. Everything was happening so quickly, and he felt overwhelmed by the amount of information, and the seriousness of the situation. Joan was pregnant, she had collapsed and lost a lot of blood, and the baby... _Baby_ Sherlock thought, repeating the word in his head. His eyes widened slightly, and his hands began to shake, before the feeling of his fingers against the skin of Joan's hands brought him back into the moment. As soon as he had realised that she was pregnant, he had felt his chest tighten with fear and terror, as his mind swam with confusion, and a combination of thoughts. Images of the night they had shared together two months ago came flooding back to him, as did Joan's behaviour over the past couple of weeks, and the memory finding her collapsed. Before he had time to process his thoughts further, her condition had deteriorated rapidly, causing the entirety of his being to become completely focused upon her. As he had ran to her, calling her name and squeezing her hand, he had been attempting to rouse her from her unconscious state. He wanted to know that she was alright, that she would be okay. He wanted to talk to her, ask her if she was alright. As she opened her eyes for a moment, and stared up at him with a wide-eyed expression of fear and pain, their eyes locked for a moment, and she understood. In that very brief moment, Sherlock was convinced that something about his expression or demeanour had made her aware that he knew. Finally, he knew. But before he could ask her, talk to her about it, she had collapsed once more, falling deeper into the unconscious.

As he stood beside her, listening to the bleeping of the monitors, which were upholding the doctor's statement that she was recovering, Sherlock found his attention being devoted to the precise nature of Joan's current situation. Her pregnancy.

Once more, Sherlock found the word 'baby' running through his mind. No one had used it yet, apart from himself. The doctor referred to her 'pregnancy', but did not use the word baby. Sherlock believed this was due to the fact that he believed that, following Joan's blood-loss, the chances of their baby surviving were negligible. And yet, as a man of logic and of figures and of reason, he knew that there _was_ still a chance. And despite having being frightened of the subject, despite it shaking him to the core, and filling him with a curious cocktail of emotions which he felt completely unable to describe or deal with, he found himself hoping more than anything that the machine being wheeled in at that moment would reveal their baby's heartbeat.

"Doctor" the nurse called, as she wheeled a small piece of medical apparatus over to the doctors.

"The bleeding has completely subsided" Dr Harlow proclaimed, turning towards Sherlock as he spoke. "Miss Watson is out of danger. Her blood pressure is increasing, and her heart rate is stabilising." Sherlock nodded in response, holding onto Joan's weak hand tightly at the news, and finding himself feeling temporarily sated by it. But as the machine before him was plugged in, and Dr Adams picked up the small wand attached, he found himself experiencing the familiar sensation of a heavy weight crushing him from the inside.

Dr Adams pulled the machine to Joan's side, standing opposite the bed to where Sherlock was. He took a step towards her, gently lifting her blouse, to reveal her toned and taut abdomen. Sherlock's eyes drifted sadly down to her abdomen, his curious eyes darting across it with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. Physically, he could see no difference in her current state. And yet, beneath her skin, he knew that an incredible amount of hormonal, physical and biological changes had been occurring in the past couple of months, culminating in the creation of their child, a consequence of the single night they allowed themselves to be completely and utterly without restriction. As the doctor turned his attention towards the machine, Sherlock's eyes were fixed firmly upon Joan's stomach, staring at it with intensity. Despite the fact that she did not appear to have gained weight, or incurred any physical changes as yet, he found himself completely astounded that he had not managed to deduce her condition. Despite her sadness, her fear, and the now painfully obviously leading conversation she sparked regarding the painting of the children, he found himself overwhelmed by his own ignorance. But more than that, his incompetence and his failure. If he had been paying attention to her, instead of to their latest case, he may have noticed. He would have, surely? He would have deduced her condition, addressed the matter with her, and provided her with assurances and support which would have saved her weeks of fear and pain, and possibly even prevented the current situation from occurring. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, inhaling a shaky breath as he increased his grip on her hand. He had failed her.

Just as the hand he was holding Joan's with began to shake with Sherlock's remorse and frustration, a deep, dull thudding sound filled the room, causing his eyes to open instantly, his pupils dilating as he stared from the wand being held to Joan's abdomen to the screen before him. The sound of the baby's heartbeat filled the room, with the sounds resonating throughout, much to the relief of everyone. Dr Adams appeared to recover from his initial shock at the sound that he was clearly not expecting to hear, as he adjusted the wand on her abdomen slightly, his eyes wide as he listened to the heartbeats. Sherlock's eyes, too, widened at the sound of the baby's strong heartbeat. It sounded to him almost like a sheet of music, a collection of notes being played and replayed, much to the contentment and relief of all those who were lucky enough to hear them. As he continued to listen to the only sound filling the temporary silence within the room, Sherlock found himself drawn to it, his own heart rate increasing and his breathing becoming lighter as he focused the majority of his attention upon the sounds. He felt an unquestionable and indescribably pull towards the sound of the baby's heartbeat, which was so strong and so confident, so determined despite everything that had happened. Sherlock felt his own heart beat faster and stronger with each sound of the baby's, until he became unsure whether the deep, confident beats filling the air were the baby's or his own.

"Strong heart beat" Dr Adams proclaimed, removing the wand from Joan's stomach, causing the sound to cease. "Very strong indeed, remarkable."

"They're both alright?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, as though the ceasing of the sounds had somehow reawakened his fears and doubts regarding the health and well-being of Joan and the baby. Dr Adams glanced up at the enigmatic man before him, whose eyes were wide an expectant, matching the notable hints of urgency and concern present within his voice. He wore a look that he had seen a thousand times before, and would see thousands of times after. And he knew the way to alleviate the fears of expectant fathers.

"It would seem so" he stated, his voice adopting a notably brighter tone, now that Joan and the baby were out of immediate danger. "Just to be certain, and to see how everything is going, I will perform an ultrasound on Miss Watson" he continued, lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock's, whose grew slightly. "We will be able to see the baby, as well as hearing it." Sherlock nodded in response, before glancing back at Joan's face, which remained unchanged. As the doctor summoned a nurse, instructing her to remove the doppler and bring in the ultrasound machine, Sherlock found himself filled with unfamiliar feelings, which he believed were similar or equal to remorse or guilt, but he could not be sure. Joan usually acted as his moral compass and guide, and without her, he found his emotions difficult to process. She always seemed to know how he was feeling, describing it better than he could himself. She just _knew_. And now, as he found himself looking down upon her unconscious and still fragile figure, he found himself questioning himself once more.

"Why did this happen?" he asked in a low tone, his face not leaving Joan's as he spoke. Dr Adams glanced up from Joan's chart as Sherlock spoke, before lowering it slightly and turning to face him directly.

"The simple answer is, we don't know" he began, his voice losing its brightness. "We can never be certain. Has Miss Watson been under a lot of stress recently? Undertaking any physically-challenging tasks? Has she been eating and sleeping regularly?" Sherlock's face remained impassive as he listened to each of these questions, but he felt his chest tighten as he answered each one in his mind. She had been under an enormous amount of stress, had been as physically active as usual, and had been neglecting her rest-related and nutritional requirements. They had both been working tirelessly on the case, working longer and harder hours than he could ever recall them undertaking. Throughout that time, he knew something was wrong. He knew she was worried, and he had attempted to reach out to her, but had failed. He took in a sharp breath, turning his head to the side slightly as he looked upon her weakened body, before his eyes became tired and glassy. "Yes" he breathed, his voice low and slightly choked.

As Sherlock looked down upon her fallen figure, he considered whether, maybe, if he had probed the issue further, whether he had been more observant, paying more attention to her than to the case, he would have worked it out. Or, at least, that he would have been in a position in which Joan felt able to confide in him. But he didn't, he hadn't, and she had not. He couldn't even begin to imagine how someone as conscientious and as selfless and Joan would have felt having known of her condition, and feeling completely unable to discuss it with him. He could not be certain why she did not disclose the information to him, but he could make several deductions which he believed to be highly accurate. She probably kept the information to herself because of their current case, her own personal fears, and the fact that it was so sudden and unexpected. Perhaps she didn't feel he was able to deal with the situation, and perhaps she feared his reaction. Sherlock winced slightly at this possibility, the thought of her fearing his reaction. Of keeping such news to herself, too worried or frightened or uncertain as to how to address it with him. He was not angry that she did not tell him, far from it. He wasn't confused either, not really. He thought through several different reasons why she chose not to disclose the information to him and, from a purely logical perspective, they made sense. From an emotional one, which he found himself undertaking, the reasons were even more obvious. Perhaps, that night at the gallery, she had tried to tell him of her pregnancy. That conversation they had about the children, was that her 'testing the water', so to speak? Trying to find out how he felt about children? Sherlock winced once more as he remembered his response to her question. For someone who was dealing with the news all alone, such a response, regardless of how insincere and sarcastic, must have pained her. All the events flooded through his mind, causing his head to ache. As he lifted his glance to Joan's face once more, he became aware of the fact that all of the issues he had been running through in his mind had one thing in common: they had resulted in Joan almost losing her life, and the life of their baby.

"The main thing you need to focus on" Dr Adams continued, his voice drawing Sherlock from his thoughts, "is that Miss Watson is going to be okay, and so is the baby" he stated, as the double-doors to the back of the room opened, and the nurse wheeled through an ultrasound machine.

"Are you quite certain?" Sherlock asked, turning his face to the side and looking up at Dr Adams, who was preparing the ultrasound machine.

"Miss Watson lost a considerable amount of blood, more than usual, but not an amount that is unheard of in women of her condition" Dr Adams continued, his voice resuming the use of the simple and slow tone which irritated Sherlock markedly. "She is stable, and the baby is alive. The bleeding has completely stopped and, from my examination of her, everything appears to be fine." Sherlock held the doctor's gaze for a few moments, before nodding in understanding, and watching as he placed some gel onto Joan's abdomen. "I'm just gonna have a look at the baby, see what's going on, alright?" Sherlock nodded once more, not lifting his eyes from Joan's abdomen, as he watched the doctor move the wand across her. "Right... ah, yes, wonderful. Hello there" he stated to the monitor, causing Sherlock's eyes to lift from Joan's abdomen, and rest firmly upon the screen.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight before him, and he found himself gripping Joan's hand tighter as he watched the small movements or the grainy figure upon the black and white screen. His curious eyes darted across the image before him, as he ran his eyes across the developing figure of the baby. He felt a similar draw towards the baby that he felt when he heard the heartbeat, and found himself flooded with emotions which he did not understand and was not completely familiar with. Although he had continuously stressed that he did not believe in love, he found that his growing relationship with Watson had caused him to reassess that statement, due to the plethora of feelings she was able to illicit from him, without doing or saying a thing. And now, despite his concerns, his fears and his doubts, the tiny figure upon the screen was wielding the same power that Joan Watson had: the ability to cause Sherlock Holmes to question his belief that he was unable to love. Love. Was it love? Was the confusing, frightening and all-consuming emotion which was running through Sherlock's veins, and causing him to feel shaky, unsteady and incredibly frightened, love? Was this what love felt like, what it equated to?

"The baby is absolutely fine" Dr Adams stated, causing Sherlock to blink himself from his thoughts, and turn his attention towards the doctor. "Perfectly formed, developing nicely. Nothing concerning at all. And I can confirm that Miss Watson is just over eight weeks into her pregnancy." He stated, looking up at Sherlock as he spoke, who nodded in return. "Now, as Miss Watson is stable, and there are no immediate dangers to herself or the baby, I am gonna have her taken through to a room on the Maternity Ward, where we can monitor her. It'll be quiet up there, you'll have some privacy."

"Yes" Sherlock replied mechanically, "of course". He lowered his gaze to Joan, who had not moved in the past twenty minutes. The doctor observed him for a moment, noting his expression, before continuing to speak.

"She's been through a lot. Physically and emotionally, she's exhausted" he explained, to which Sherlock nodded to. "She may be unconscious for some time. But her heart-rate and BP have recovered. Her BP is slightly low, but that's understandable given the nature of her condition. We've got her hooked up to a saline drip, which should help." Sherlock nodded once more, not allowing his attention to be removed from Joan. "We'll move her now, alright? Dr Harlow has gone to arrange for some porters to take her up. You can stay with her."

"Yes" Sherlock replied confidently, his unblinking eyes fixed upon his partner. Dr Adams placed Joan's chart at the end of the bed, before instructing the two nurses to prepare her for the move. The nurses brought some patient attire into the room, dressing Joan's lower half and covering her in warm blankets, in preparation for her move.

A few minutes later, two tall porters walked into the room and talked briefly with the doctor, before raising the bars on Joan's bed, and taking up their positions at either end. Sherlock gave her hand one final, reassuring squeeze, before placing it gently upon her abdomen, and walking with the bed as they left the ER and made for an elevator, which took them to the Maternity unit. Dr Adams accompanied them upstairs, and guided them into Joan's room, before plucking her chart from the end of her bed and scanning her notes, before glancing at her monitors and comparing the results. He nodded to himself in satisfaction, before replacing her chart and looking towards Sherlock, who had resumed his previous position by Joan's side. Sherlock was standing at the edge of her bed, his hands resting upon the sides, as he stared down upon her.

"Everything appears to be fine, Sir" Dr Adams stated, offering a small smile to Sherlock, whose eyes rose to meet his face. "A nurse will come in to check her vitals every thirty minutes or so, but if you have any concerns, please don't hesitate in calling for someone. There's an alert button just above the bed, and staff will be just outside should you need anything. Alright?" Sherlock nodded in response, before casting a cursory glance across the room. Joan's ward room was medium-sized and painted in a light yellow colour, which matched the white, upholstered chairs and table in the room. The room itself was well lit, and had a window on the far-right wall which overlooked the street. "I'll be back in about an hour to check on her personally, alright? But as I said, any concerns, please let us know."

"Of course" Sherlock stated, nodding a couple of times, before returning his gaze to Joan. The doctor watched the curious man for a few moments, before suppressing a small smile, and walking slowly from the room.

Sherlock's attention was devoted to Joan, and only the sound of the door closing behind him drew him from his thoughts. Everything was now quiet and still, with the exception of the occasional beeping of the machines which were monitoring Joan, whose paleness was replaced by a slight glow to her cheeks. Now that the emergency had been dealt with, and Joan was recovering, Sherlock felt deeply relieved. After having seen the amount of blood she had lost, and watching as she fell lifelessly back onto the bed, he truly feared that her condition could be fatal. But now, as she lay in a deep sleep, resting comfortably upon the pillows, he found himself overcome with familiar feelings of fear and anxiety. Sherlock was still processing the fact that Joan was carrying his child, and the emotions and thoughts which accompanied this knowledge made him feel incredibly worried and overwhelmed. But as he glanced down at Joan, whose chest was rising lightly with each breath she took, he found his attention removed from his own concerns, and fixed completely on her. He rose his left hand from the side of the bed, placing it by her cheek, as he ran his fingers gently through her soft hair. Sherlock leaned towards her, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against her own, feeling reassured and comforted by their level of closeness. He tilted his face up slightly, before parting his lips and allowing them to graze her forehead.

"It's alright" he whispered, the words trailing from his mouth and falling upon her ears. "Watson, it... it's alright" he repeated, before closing his eyes and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. He felt her hair around his fingers as he allowed the kiss to linger for a few moments, before he drew himself back into a standing position, and looked down upon her. She appeared almost serene as she slept, which he was grateful for. Sherlock felt increasingly nervous and unsteady, and pulled a chair from the corner of the room to Joan's side, before easing himself slowly into it, and clasping his hands together in his lap. He lifted his head to face Joan, whose head was resting upon the pillow at the top of the bed, which was in perfect alignment with his line of vision. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, and considered the events of the past hour or so. As he leaned forward in the chair, clasping his hands tightly in his lap, he found himself running over the events in detail in his mind, considering every piece of information, every fact, and every consequence. He then considered the words he had just spoken to Watson, his reassurance to her that everything was going to be okay. And as he sat by her side, her spent the next few hours considering ways to ensure that he kept his promise.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Hi everyone. Sorry about the delay, I've been a bit preoccupied lately. I hope this chapter is alright, and that there isn't too much OOCness. I always find this part the most difficult to write, and so if something does not seem realistic, or if there are any issues, please let me know.

Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. I apologise if the beginning seems a bit 'drawn out', but I wanted to capture their feelings, fears and emotions in a powerful and accurate way, and I felt that this was a possible way of doing it (although now I'm not so sure).

Again, thank you for you patience and support,

HQ21

Sherlock remained seated a few feet from Joan's bed for several hours as she slept, his mind processing the events of the past few hours, as he attempted to figure out how best to discuss the issue of Joan's pregnancy with her. Sherlock ran his analytical mind repeatedly over the possible reasons for her concealing her pregnancy, over how she must have felt since discovering her condition, and how he would address these issues with her. Each time he thought these issues through, he found himself feeling increasingly anxious for Joan's well-being, both physically and emotionally. Keeping such a secret to herself must have been incredibly difficult, and he inwardly cursed himself repeatedly at his words to her in the art gallery. He was now certain that this had been her attempt at telling him of her condition, or at least of trying to ascertain how he may feel about children. Instead of offering her an honest answer which would have reassured her, and perhaps prevented the chain of events which followed, he answered her satirically, using words which had more harmful effects than he could have possibly imagined.

As doctors and nurses came into the room periodically to check on Joan, Sherlock found himself staring at her weak and vulnerable figure as she slept. As he saw her in this state, he watched her with curiosity and concern, and felt an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness which frightened him. He could not do a thing to comfort her, to help her. Instead, he was sitting in an uncomfortable chair by her side, running through a multitude of questions and answers, which confused him more each time he considered them. He remained locked in his thoughts for most of the night, puzzling over the events of the past few hours. As he ran through his now familiar thought pattern, he found himself focusing on what he considered to be the reasons why Joan did not inform him of her condition. He was so focused on this line of thought that he did not immediately notice some slight movement from the sleeping figure of his partner.

Shortly after 6am, Joan Watson began to stir, as vague and hazy recollections of the night before swam in her awakening mind. Joan's found herself experiencing a brief period of time in which she was uncertain of whether she was still dreaming or finally beginning to wake. She felt light and weightless, and her mind and her memories were becoming clearer and clearer, as the haziness and uncertainty which she had been experiencing began to slowly abate. As Joan found herself slowly returning to consciousness, her mind was ablaze with recent memories, sensations and words. She remained perfectly still, with her eyes firmly closed for several minutes as she attempted to figure out what had happened. She remembered Sherlock frantically calling her name, her being lifted and laid upon a cold surface, and someone speaking to her kindly as they examined her. As the memories gave her clarity of thought, Joan also found herself remembering the one occasion when she managed to open her eyes and speak Sherlock's name, in one final, desperate attempt to tell her about the baby before he found out second-hand. But from the panicked look of fear which defined his features, she had fallen back into unconsciousness knowing that it was too late. That she had failed. She remembered small fragments of conversation, individual words and phrases which were spoken as she drifted in and out of consciousness. But the pain she had been in, and the overwhelming fear and concern for her baby, had meant that these words had been a secondary concern to her, and her recollection and understanding of them was very limited. One thing she did remember, something which had been a constant throughout her medical and emotional ordeal, was the reassuring feeling of Sherlock's familiar hand holding onto hers tightly. She remembered how, even through the pain and the uncertainty of the time she was lying beneath the hospital lights, the familiar sensation of his hand holding hers gave her an incredible amount of comfort. She had almost believed that everything was going to be okay. Almost. At the recollection of Sherlock's hand upon her own, Joan's fingers twitched slightly, caressing the soft material of the blanket which covered her, a poor replacement for her lover's hand.

This movement, although small and weak, was enough to draw Sherlock's attention from his thoughts and directly upon Joan. His breath caught in his throat, and he allowed his hand to fall slowly from his face, as he glanced upwards towards her hospital bed, as his heart stilled for a moment, fear and anticipation gripping him. Sherlock stared at her for a moment, his eyes widening as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the sight before him. She remained still for a few moments, until her fingers drifted slowly across the blankets once more, and her eyes snapped open.

Joan blinked a couple of times, allowing herself to adjust to her unfamiliar surroundings. Her eyes glanced tiredly around the parts of the room that she could see, and she found herself recognising the familiarity of the building. From her time as a doctor, she instantly recognised the scent, atmosphere and décor of hospital rooms. However, it was only at this time, as her tired and weary body lay motionless upon the unforgiving mattress, that she experienced first-hand the discomfort and coldness associated with the thin blue and white blankets which were wrapped tightly around her. She closed her eyes tiredly once more, as she considered the coolness and silence of the room, which was fairly dim, apart from a pleasant and warming glow being emitted from some of the small lights upon the walls. Joan breathed in deeply as she felt herself begin feeling more awake, inhaling the familiar clinical scent of the room, which caused her to tremble slightly. After just a moment more, she opened her eyes.

Despite the fact that she had only just regained consciousness, and she was staring tiredly at the blank wall before her, she knew that Sherlock was in the room. She could sense it, just like she could at the brownstone, when she would wake to find him sitting a respectable distance away from her, leaning back in his chair and speaking with animation. But as Joan blinked tiredly in an attempt to make herself feel more awake and more conscious, she realised that he was not speaking. He was silent, and completely motionless. The only sound within the room was the sound of her heart racing, and her breathing increasing as she became fully aware of what had happened to lead to her waking up in a hospital bed. She already had an inkling, from the snippets of hazy memories which greeted her when she first awoke. But now, as she lay quiet and motionless in her mildly uncomfortable bed, she found herself recalling more of the events with a clarity and accuracy. Despite her previous pain and the bleeding, as well as her current level of discomfort, she knew that the baby was alright. She couldn't explain how she knew this, or what led her to believe it with such certainty or conviction. But she knew. She closed her eyes and felt her body overcome with relief at the knowledge that the baby was unharmed. Before she could process her thoughts any further, a sound from her left caught her attention. There was a creaking sound, followed by shuffling or movement, which she knew could only have come from one person. Sherlock. She found herself overcome by feelings of guilt, fear and panic, which travelled throughout her body and caused her heart to beat almost audibly.

Joan's thoughts and fears were temporarily overtaken by the weakness and soreness that she was currently experiencing. Her abdomen felt very tender and she felt incredibly weak and lethargic. She shifted slightly in the bed, which caused her to become aware of how heavy her limbs felt. Despite this, and despite her tiredness and the fact she had only recently returned to consciousness, Joan needed to talk to Sherlock. She felt an overwhelming need to talk to him, a need to sincere and so desperate that it temporarily revitalised her from her weakened state. She tensed slightly, pressing her back upon the mattress as she attempted to rise. As she attempted to move, she felt as though she were being drawn back upon the bed by her own body, which was protesting at the slightest movement she made. At that moment she remembered feeling unwell. She recalled sharp pains in her abdomen, then an overwhelming feeling of dizziness. She also remembered stronger and more intense pains in her abdomen, as well as the sensation of liquid running down her legs, before she lost consciousness once more. Joan breathed in shakily at this memory, before allowing her eyes to drift slowly down to her abdomen, and remain there for a moment. She breathed in a couple of times, before placing her hands flat upon the surface of the bed, and weakly pushing herself into a sitting position, leaning against her pillows, before turning her head slightly to face him. Sherlock watched her intensely, and observed how her eyes fell onto her stomach and lingered there, before she visibly relaxed. Despite this, Sherlock knew how frightened and how uncertain she must be feeling about the well-being of the baby, and he felt an overwhelming need to reassure her. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and edged forward, causing it to creak slightly beneath him.

In the time it had taken for Joan to adjust herself into a sitting position upon the bed, Sherlock had pushed himself from his chair and was standing tall before it. There was just a few feet between them, but the distance proved difficult for Sherlock to pass. He was not angry with Joan, nor did he wish to punish her with coldness. He was, quite simply, uncertain of how to respond. He knew she would be in some level of physical discomfort, which he did not wish to perpetuate. But more than this, he didn't know what to do. All he knew is that he desperately wanted to comfort her, to reassure her. But he did not know how. That was her area, not his. From his own experience, he found that his attempts to console or emotionally assist often backfired, and he did not wish for Joan to misunderstand his meanings or his intentions which, he judged, was fairly unlikely. She never did. She had a deep-rooted, almost innate knowledge of the reasons behind his eccentricities and aloofness that often unnerved him. But she was always right. As he stared at her with wide, uncertain eyes, he found himself lost in her expression. She appeared so unlike herself. So weak, tired, dazed, and completely terrified. Despite his own reservations and concerns, the vulnerable appearance of Joan Watson compelled him to act. He shifted on the spot, before taking a sure step towards her bedside. Sherlock was about to assist Joan with sitting up, but she had done it quickly and efficiently despite her clear tiredness and physical exhaustion. Sherlock froze, and watched his partner from just a few paces away.

Joan stared at Sherlock with bright, wide eyes, which met his frightened and concerned ones. Joan's composure began to fall the moment she beheld his expression, which reminded her very much of how he had looked upon her in what she believed must have been the ER. He looked so terrified and so confused, and she found her feelings and fears subordinating themselves to his, as she was overwhelmed by the need to comfort him. Sherlock remained still on the spot, his right hand drifting nervously towards his thigh, as their eyes connected and held a mutual gaze. The power in the look they shared, and the emotions they beheld, transcended any and all experiences they had experiences, either as individuals or together. It was the most powerfully elusive yet emotionally telling look that they had ever exchanged, and the thoughts and feelings elicited during those few moments are beyond description.

Joan felt weak all of a sudden, and her tired body began to shake. But the look of fear and confusion on Sherlock's face sobered her instantly, and she found herself regaining her composure almost immediately. He had been with her, he had remained by her side, despite her concealment. Sherlock appreciated honestly and candidness, he liked to know where he stood, and he liked things to be clear. In not telling him of her condition, something he had a right to know about, she had broken one of the defining features of their relationship: their mutual honesty. As she stared at him with concern, her whole body and mind alight with fear and anticipation, she felt more angry at herself than she ever thought possible. Joan swallowed once and inhaled deeply, before parting her lips and attempting to speak. She managed to utter the first syllable of his name, before the sounds choked in her throat. The words she attempted were low and inaudible, due to both Joan's weakness and the dryness of her mouth and throat. She coughed slightly, before placing one hand over her mouth as she tilted her head downwards, and attempted to swallow once more. Her throat felt sore and dry, and she found herself shaking once more, as she desperately attempted to prepare herself for speech. Joan ran her fingers slowly down her neck, before a sound in the room drew her attention to her side.

Sherlock watched as she attempted to speak, the words refusing to leave her body. He felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight and sound of Joan Watson struggling to speak. Her body, her mind and her voice were exhausted by her recent ordeal, and she was under the most unimaginable strain. Seeing her so weak, so fractured and so vulnerable, was unbearable.

Joan slowly lowered her hand from her neck as the familiar figure of Sherlock walked briskly from the chair and to the side of the bed. His feet shuffled across the recently-polished floor, as the sound of his jacket swaying through the air as he moved broke the silence. As she glanced towards him, she found the familiar scent she associated with Sherlock filling the air, which provided her with a temporary yet powerful form of comfort. Quickly and without a word, Sherlock reached for the glass jug on Joan's bedside table and began to pour some water into a cup. The sound of the flowing water filled the silence of the room, which was noticeable yet not uncomfortable. Joan watched Sherlock's strong and steady hands as he poured the water, and she used this brief time of reprieve to rub her face with her hands and blink repeatedly, in a desperate attempt to make herself feel more alert and awake. However, she did not need to do so for long, until she found herself feeling fully restored to consciousness, and completely aware of what was happening. Joan felt her heart beat faster and heavier as she became aware of Sherlock's closeness to her, which caused her feelings of guilt and fear to increase tenfold, especially considering how attentive he was being with the water. She tilted her head up to face him, but was too afraid to allow their eyes to meet once more. She couldn't bear to see that frightened look in his eyes, the uncertainty that defined his features, knowing that she was the cause of it.

Sherlock watched as she cast her face down, unable to look at him. Whether it was due to embarrassment, confusion or illness, he could not tell. But from the melancholy look which flashed in her eyes as she leant down slightly, he felt that her emotional distress was the reason for her evasion. He placed the jug back upon the table, before turning on the spot, and taking a couple of cautious steps towards her bedsides. His movements were slow and considerate, so that she would be able to anticipate his arrival by her bedside. The scent of her perfume danced in the air as he stood over her, glancing with concern upon her, as she slowly lifted her head to face him. She wore the same look of confusion and fear which he felt desperate to remove, from both her face and her heart. Sherlock's eyes softened, as he reached towards her with his free hand, and placed lightly upon her right shoulder. She felt her tense shoulders shake slightly, before relaxing completely beneath his touch. Before Joan could speak, Sherlock placed the cup of water to her lips, and gently encouraged her to drink. She complied, wrapping her shaky hands around the thin cup, which she drew to her lips. As she took a few small and cautious sips, she felt Sherlock's warm hand wrap tightly around her own. Her grip upon the cup steadied with this contact, and she found the warmth from his touch radiate throughout her body, and give her self-remonstrating mind a temporary reprieve. Joan exhaled a shaky breath, before removing her lips from the edge of the cup and leaning back slightly. Sherlock removed his hand from atop of her own, and removed the half-empty cup from her grasp and placing it back upon the table. She instantly mourned the loss of his touch, the warmth of his hands, the kindness of his gesture. But she did not miss it for long as, less than a moment after placing the cup upon the table, he turned back to face her, and covered her small, clasped hands with his own, as he perched on the edge of her bed.

Joan's lips parted in a small smile at the kindness of his touch and the closeness of him to her. She could feel the warmth and strength of his body beside her, which comforted her immensely. And yet, her small smile began to fade, as she conceded that the comfort she was experiencing from her partner was something that she didn't deserve. Joan inhaled sharply, and felt her hands begin to tremble beneath his. Sherlock responded instantly, by clasping his hands tighter across hers, and edging slightly closer to her, watching her carefully to make sure that she was not discomforted by his actions. Joan glanced up at him as he moved closer to her, and she found her face just inches from his own, as he watched her with a kind, sombre expression. After everything he had been through, after all he had seen and experienced in the past few hours, he just wanted to comfort her. Joan considered this for a moment, her heart clenching with guilt and self-condemnation, as the kind expression he wore made her forget the words she so desperately wished him to hear. He explanation, her apologies, her remorse. Joan's composure began to falter, and she felt her wide and alert eyes becoming tearful, as her body began to shake once more.

"I'm sorry" she whispered, her voice low and her words slightly choked. "I am so, so sorry" she repeated, as a single tear drifted down her cheek, before she began to weep. She felt the fear of the past couple of weeks, the terror she experienced at having collapsed and been hospitalised, and her frustration at her perceived injustices to Sherlock, to be completely overwhelming, causing her to break down completely. Joan removed her hands from Sherlock's and placed one over her mouth in a desperate yet futile attempt to stifle the sobs which she could not control. She felt ashamed at having broken down in front of him, at having put him in this position when she should be giving him an explanation. As she bowed her head in sadness and shame, and turned slightly to the side in an attempt to shield herself and her embarrassment from him, she felt his stomach press against her side, and his strong, comforting arms embrace her. His kindness, and the openness of such a gesture, made her cry even more.

Sherlock placed his left arm across her back and his right arm across her chest, allowing his hand to rest upon the top of her arm, as he drew her towards him. She was reluctant at first, hesitant. Her body was shaking as the sound of stifled sobs escaped her. Her distress was more than he could bear, and he edged closer to her, running his hand reassuringly up and down her arm for a few moments, before pulling her gently towards him. She did not tense up, resist or attempt to move away. Instead, she allowed her head to rest upon his chest, as the sound of his fast-beating heart filled her ears. The sound of his heartbeat was overshadowed by his words, which stated repeatedly in a low yet convicted tone. "Don't be sorry" he whispered, holding her closer to him. "Don't be sorry".

Sherlock drew Joan closer to him, shielding her with his arm, as he placed his free hand comfortingly upon the back of her head. He held her safely and securely to his chest, hugging her tighter as she cried, until the sounds of the sobs disappeared completely. Joan sniffed, inhaled a slow and shaky breath, and pushed her hand upon Sherlock's chest, before disentangling herself from his embrace. He did not resist her movements, and removed his hands from her, clasping them together in his lap as he waited patiently for her to speak. He knew that this must be difficult for her, and her evident signs of distress made him aware of the need to give her some space, to allow herself to think and to speak. He remained sitting quietly by her side for a few moments, until she took in a deep and shaky breath, and turned her head towards him as she began to speak.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice low and almost a whisper. Sherlock glanced at her red eyes and frightened expression, before narrowing his eyes in confusion. She was the one who had been crying, who had just broken down in front of him. It was unlike her, completely out of character. When Mycroft had announced his plans to fake his death, Joan had rushed from the living room and shut herself in her bedroom for a couple hours, before leaving for a worrying-long jog. She did all of this, despite her sadness and her pain, to prevent Sherlock or anyone else from witnessing her torment. And yet here, now, she had just broken down so completely. The woman so controlled and composed that it was almost beyond belief. She had been dealing with the news of her surprise pregnancy alone, and had been rushed to hospital after collapsing and losing a dangerous amount of blood. The lives of herself and the baby had been threatened, and she was still recovering from her ordeal. So why was it that she was asking if he was okay?

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?" he asked in a low and gentle tone, shifting his body slightly to the side, so that they were facing each other directly. Sherlock's eyes met Joan's, which were gazing upon him with an expression of mingled fear and apprehension. In the time it took Sherlock to identify the look of confusion and fear in her eyes, another tear fell down her cheek, which he brushed away instantly with his left forefinger. "Watson" he whispered, as she shifted on the spot slightly, averting her gaze from him as she used her own hand to wipe her eyes. "Watson it's alright" he stated, placing his hand upon her clasped and shaking ones, which were holding themselves together tightly in her lap. "I assure you, it's alright."

"What about you?" she asked in a low and hesitant manner, before lifting her eyes to meet his. "Are you alright?" Sherlock gave her another confused look, before running his eyes analytically across her face. As he considered her question for a few seconds, he became aware of precisely what it was that she was asking him. Due to her distress, he had not realised it sooner. But he did now.

"Watson" he began, squeezing her hand gently for reassurance, "I assure you, you have nothing to worry about. Your concern, whilst understandable, is misguided" he continued, is low and kind tone causing the anticipation and guilt within her to increase in equal measure. "You have nothing to apologise for."

"I should have told you sooner" she stated, her voice heavy with emotion and regret. "You had every right to know, I... I should not... it wasn't my intention to keep it from you, I just-"

"Watson" Sherlock whispered, squeezing her hands once more as he used his free hand to encourage her to turn towards him. This level of closeness, of comfort, of emotion, was so unusual for them both, and yet it did not feel unusual, strange or out of place. Joan breathed in a slow, steady breath, and found her composure returning to her, as Sherlock waited patiently before continuing to speak. "I understand" he stated simply, running his hand over her clasped hands as he spoke.

"What?" she asked, her eyes and her voice betraying her confusion. Sherlock gave her a reassuring look, before wrapping his hand tightly across hers, and running his free hand down her arm comfortingly.

"Watson, I am not angry with you" he began, his voice retaining the kind and sincere tone he had been using since she regained consciousness. "I harbour no ill-feelings towards you or towards our current situation. And certainly not towards our child." He paused for a moment, watching her carefully, to make sure he was not causing her any distress. "And, when you are feeling ready to, I... I hope that you will consent to allowing us to discuss the matter. And let me assure you that I... I am here for you, for you both. I want to help you, Watson, truly. And I... I hope that you feel able to allowing me to do so."

Joan stared up at him with wide eyes and a nervous expression. His words provided her with infinite comfort, and a degree of reassurance that she did not think it possible that she would be able to possess. But as his kind words ran through her mind, she found herself reminding herself of just how little she felt that she deserved them. She nodded slowly, her wide eyes softening slightly, as she prepared herself to speak.

"Thank you" she whispered, offering him a small, weak smile. "I didn't want-" she began, breaking off as she struggled to find the words. "I didn't know how to tell you, I... it's not that I didn't want to, or that I didn't think you deserved to know" she continued, her voice low and tired, yet recovering notably. Sherlock squeezed her hand encouragingly, which gave her the strength to continue. "I found out a couple of weeks ago" she continued, speaking in a lower, quieter version of her usual voice. "I... I was scared" she stated simply, glancing from her hands to the floor as she spoke. Sherlock could tell that she felt upset and ashamed, and that she was finding their present conversation difficult, so he waited quietly and patiently for her to continue. "I... I was afraid, confused, and everything was just... everything was happening so quickly that I... I just... I needed some time to think, to... to process it" she stated, as Sherlock nodded slowly in agreement. "But that didn't give me the right to hide it from you" she continued, turning to face him with apologetic eyes. "You deserved to have that time too. But you didn't, I took it from you. Instead, you had to find out like you did, and I... the past few hours must have been-"

"Watson" he stated, squeezing her hands as he broke his silence. "Don't do this to yourself" he stated in a low, gentle manner. "As I have told you, I understand. It must have been... quite a shock for you, and I imagine that, given the timing and... and given the complexity of our relationship, that you must have been terrified." Sherlock watched Joan with a kind expression, squeezing her hands once more as she exhaled a shaky breath and averted her eyes from his. "But I assure you that you do not need to be afraid" he continued, as she closed her eyes and bowed her head slightly. "I assure you, Watson, that I will support whatever decision you make, completely and without reservation. Of that you can be certain."

"I never doubted your commitment" she stated, turning to him with a kind and warm expression. "Of all the things I feared and doubted, that was not one of them."

"Can you tell me what it is that you are frightened of?" he asked gently, his eyes travelling from her eyes to her lips, then back to her eyes, which were staring at him imploringly.

"Everything" she stated simply, suppressing a small laugh as she spoke. She was silent for a few moments, and Sherlock waited patiently for her to continue. "I was scared that I wouldn't be able to keep the baby safe. What we do, it... it's dangerous, there is danger everywhere in our lives, with what we do. I was afraid that I was subjecting an innocent person to that, someone who couldn't protect themselves, who had no say." She paused once more, pressing her lips together as she attempted to secure her composure. "And I... I was scared of telling you" she began, before rushing to continue her explanation. "I wasn't scared of _you_, or of how you would react. I guess what I was scared of was... was that I was forcing you into something, that I was putting you in a situation that you weren't prepared for, and that you didn't feel able to deal with" she stated simply. "But I was wrong" she continued, looking directly into his eyes.

Sherlock watched her for a moment, before drawing her shaking hands into his, and clasping them tightly. "Watson" he began, speaking in a kind and reassuring manner. "I fear you have been unduly hard upon yourself. As usual" he continued, his voice remaining low and gentle. "As I have said, I understand that you were afraid, and your reasons are completely warranted and understandable, and you do not have to apologise for them."

"Maybe I shouldn't apologise for being afraid, but I should for lying to you" she returned. Sherlock gazed into her eyes for a moment, before exhaling a quick, sharp breath, and continuing to speak.

"Watson" he began once more, drawing her nervous eyes onto his own. "There is no need for you to condemn yourself so harshly, and without justification. You found yourself in a situation that you were unfamiliar with, unprepared for, and that frightened you. Such reactions are not only understandable, they are expected" he continued, feeling her hands cease trembling beneath his own. "Taking some time to consider your condition, to allow yourself some privacy in assessing how you felt about it, and what you were frightened of, is a perfectly rational and completely understandable reaction to finding out such news in such circumstances. We were in the middle of a case involving a serial killer, a case which has had our complete and undivided attention for the past few months. And, as you have stated, it is something which has demonstrated the dangers and the risks of what we do, and the threat that our work poses to our lives on an almost daily basis" he continued, as her hands began to shake slightly once more. "But what it has also demonstrated, Watson, is the strength of our partnership" he continued, watching as her eyes began to soften slightly. "And not just our partnership, but our work as a team, as a joint task force with the NYPD" he paused for a moment, allowing Joan to take in his words. "Watson, you are correct in surmising that you and I face very real dangers to our well-being and even to our lives. But what you must realise is that, despite that, we are protected. You are protected" he stated kindly, as Joan looked up and met his eyes. "We protect each other, Watson. And this mutual level of protection is also extended to the NYPD. Although, granted, we do protect them far more than they protect us."

Joan smiled for a moment, scoffing at his answer, before inhaling a shaky breath and continuing to listen.

"You are protected, Watson. Of that I assure you. And if-" he paused for a moment, and the change in his tone as well as the unforeseen pause caused Joan's attention to be placed upon her partner's face, which bore a confusing and troubling expression. Over the past few hours, one thing that had been on his mind was whether Watson intended on continuing with the pregnancy. Based on the fact that she was still pregnant after having know for a couple of weeks, and that she had spoken in a way which would seem to suggest that she had been considering carrying the child to term, she had not stated what it was that she wished to do.

"What?" Joan asked gently, after Sherlock had not spoken in a few seconds. "Sherlock?"

"Forgive me, I-" he began, cutting off once more, before recovering quickly and continuing to speak. "I haven't asked what you... what it is that you wish to do. About the..." Sherlock paused, struggling to form his question into words. 

"About the baby?" she asked gently, her voice faltering slightly as she spoke the word aloud in his presence. She considered his question for a moment, before shifting slightly on the bed, and turning to face him directly. "Sherlock I... I want to keep the baby. If this isn't what you want, if it's too much for you, then I understand, and I can-"

"No, Watson, no, I-" he responded immediately. "Forgive me, that was not what I meant at all" he continued, meeting her worried eyes with a reassuring gaze. "I... I did not wish to presume that... that you had..." Sherlock faltered once more, pausing as he found himself unable to complete his sentence. "I do not wish for you to do something you feel uncomfortable with. As I have said, I will support whatever decision you make. And should... should you wish to continue with the pregnancy, and keep the child, then I... I will do everything within my power to support you, and to keep you both safe. The last thing I should wish for would be for you to leave, or to even feel that you have to."

Joan felt herself welling up once more at the kindness and sincerity of his statement. But she managed to keep her emotions at bay, and addressed him after taking in a few preparatory breaths. "Of everything I was afraid of, amongst all the uncertainty, I... I never doubted that I wanted to keep the baby" she began, watching as Sherlock appeared to visibly relax. "I was scared that we wouldn't be able to protect the baby, and that, even if we figured out a way that we could, that it... it may not have been what you wanted" she continued, pausing for a moment as she turned towards him, preparing herself to ask him the question which frightened her the most. "Is it?" she asked, feeling her resolve shake as his eyes met hers. "Is it what you want?"

Sherlock watched her for a moment, his heart pounding mercilessly in his chest, as he prepared himself to frame the answer to the question which he had anticipated. He removed his hands from hers for a moment, causing her eyes to drift worriedly down. Sherlock stared at her hands, turning one of them over so that her palm was facing upwards. He then drew his fingers gently across her hand, before resting two of his fingers upon her wrist, and tapping a pattern gently upon her. Joan stared perplexedly down at her hand, watching as Sherlock tapped the same pattern upon her for a few moments.

"When you were unconscious" he began in a low voice, his eyes not leaving her hand, "you lost a considerable amount of blood. After the doctors managed to stabilise you, they sent for a doppler machine, and checked the baby's heartbeat" he continued, lifting his eyes to meet hers, as she continued to tap the sheet of notes which had been etched into his memory, upon the wrist of Joan Watson. "I confess, I was afraid. Terrified, actually" he began, watching as Joan's kind, understanding eyes met his own. "But it was not hearing the heartbeat that I feared" he continued, before staring at her with conviction. "It was not hearing it." Joan froze, before blinking a couple of times, and nodding slowly towards him. "When I heard the heartbeat I... I can't describe what I felt, it was..." he paused, his eyes lighting up as he continued to tap. "The heartbeat was strong. Very strong, in fact. The beats reminded me of a piece by Mozart that I enjoyed as a boy" he continued, as Joan's eyes fell once more to her wrist.

"Is that the heartbeat?" she asked, staring warmly at his fingers as the drummed the repetitive pattern upon her wrist. "You remembered it?"

"Every beat" he stated simply, before stopping the tapping, and holding her hand tightly. "There are some very real issues that we need to discuss, and some questions that we must consider" he began, speaking kindly and softly, and giving Joan a reassuring look as he spoke. "But one thing that is certain, and that you do not need to fear, is how I feel about our child" he began, watching Joan's eyes widen softly at his choice of words. _Our child_. "Watson, you have and always will have my complete, unfaltering and unconditional support and adoration. And I... I would be eternally grateful and deeply touched if you would allow me to extend my dedication, support and commitment of you, to our child."

"Are you sure?" Joan asked, her voice lowering slightly, as she found herself battling her emotions once more, as she fought to maintain her composure.

"Yes" he stated, squeezing her hand tightly, and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Watson I am very, very sure" he continued, removing his lips from her forehead, as he leaned back to look at her. She appeared notably more relaxed, and was certainly relieved, which he was grateful for. And yet, there was something else. In her expression, in her demeanour, there was something else. Something was deeply troubling her. "Watson, what is it?" he asked gently, causing her to look up at him once more. Joan offered him a small smile, and sighed gently as she prepared herself to speak. "What is it that is troubling you?"

"Over the past couple of weeks, I... I found myself running over this in my head. What I would say to you, how I... how I would talk to you about it, and, and even what you might say" she began, glancing up at him as she spoke. Sherlock nodded reassuringly, which gave her encouragement to continue. "Usually the prospect terrified me. The thought of making you feel trapped or afraid or... or coerced into something that you did not sign up for-"

"As a former doctor, Miss Watson" Sherlock began, speaking in a kind and gentle tone. "I'm rather surprised to find that you seem to have forgotten that you are no solely responsible for your current condition. I believe that I myself did play a fairly substantial part." Joan smiled nervously as he spoke.

"Yes, well..." she responded, exhaling as she smiled, before her face adopted a sadder and more reflective expression. "Sometimes I'd have this... this moment. A moment where I would envision the conversation we would have, and that it went well. It was okay. But then I found myself thinking about... about actually being... about..." she paused, faltering slightly, and finding herself unable to continue.

"About being pregnant?" Sherlock offered, speaking in a low and kind tone. Joan nodded in response, before turning towards him. "Does that frighten you?" he asked gently.

"Yes" she replied simply, her voice low and hesitant. "Not medically, I mean. As you said, my former medical experience means that I have a fairly good understanding of what is happening and what to expect" she stated, turning from him as she prepared to continue. "I wasn't afraid of physically carrying a child, I... I was afraid that I... That I couldn't... that I wouldn't be able to..." she began, breaking off as she struggled to find the words. "I was worried that I wouldn't be able to do this."

"To do what?" Sherlock asked gently, despite having already deduced what it was that she was referring to.

"This. Any of this" she responded, as she began to tremble once more. Sherlock wrapped his hands around her own and squeezed them reassuringly, his eyes not leaving her face.

"It's alright, Watson" he soothed, as he ran his thumb along the side of her hand. "Take your time."

"We aren't just having a baby, you know, I... I always thought that sounds so simple, doesn't it? It makes it sound like something you just do, and adjust to, and look after" she began, averting her eyes from Sherlock once more, who squeezed her hands reassuringly in response. "Sherlock, we are going to be responsible for another human being. Someone who... who will be completely dependent upon us, for the rest of our lives, and for all of theirs. Someone who we must love and support without question and without condition" she continued, turning to face Sherlock with a nervous expression. "Do you... do you think we can do that?" she asked, feeling as though her mind, body and breathing had been stopped for a few moments.

"In the past couple of hours, I have been considering many of the same issues which you have brought up, and I have been coming up with ways, methods and ideas to solve some of them" Sherlock began, holding her hands tightly in his. "And, like you, I have thought of some things which we need to consider, concerning safety, well-being and other such practicalities. In the past few hours, I have questioned and considered many things, many consequences and many possibilities. But one thing I have not questioned, is how I feel about you, and how I feel about our child" he stated, meeting her gaze as he paused. "Watson, over the past few months our lives have changed in almost every way possible. Our relationship changed, adapted and survived. And now, as a result, we have the opportunity to welcome and embrace a further development, another change. The baby is a physical representation of just how much we are capable of achieving when we dedicate ourselves to someone we love, Watson" Sherlock continued, nodding nervously towards her as he spoke. "And I have no doubt that we can work together and ensure the safety, well-being and happiness of our child."

"Are you sure?" Joan asked, her eyes widening as he spoke.

"I have never been so sure, Watson" Sherlock responded, pressing his lips together in a small smile, before drawing her towards him. Joan allowed herself to lean into him, wrapping her arm across his chest as he placed a chaste kiss lovingly upon her forehead.

"Thank you" she whispered, her tired eyes closing slowly, as her weary body allowed her the rest she required. Sherlock looked down at the sleeping figure of his partner, before adjusting his arm to ensure she was comfortable.

"Thank you" he whispered, before placing another kiss gently upon her forehead. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head carefully on top of Joan's, as he drummed the familiar pattern of their baby's heartbeat onto her hand.


End file.
